Five Summers
by ruby gillis
Summary: What happened to Di and Nan and Shirley and the other Ingleside children during the years of WWI? Read and find out! NOTE: Used to be called 'The Young Maples.'
1. In Rainbow Valley

Diana Blythe stretched languidly as she lay back on the warm sweet-smelling grass. Why was it that everything in Rainbow Valley seemed more saturated with colour than other, commonplace places? The grass there was not green, but emerald, the sky above that was studded with fluffy white clouds was not blue but deepest, palest sapphire. The daffodils seemed to be golden drops of sunlight fallen down to earth, the roses in the shadowy pools of the blackly-green pines had heart's of love's own hue. And, thought Di, as she fingered one of her own curls,

"Even my hair seems redder here than it does in any other place."

She had long ago resigned herself to the fact that certain things would always be true, world without end, amen. Jem had been born to be the leader of them all. Nan would always be the 'pretty' one of the Ingleside twins. Walter could not help writing poetry as naturally as breathing, Shirley would always be shy and quiet, and Rilla would be the baby even when she was a grown-up woman of forty or so. Di had accepted these things. But she had never quite resigned herself to her own red hair.

"Do you think it looks a _little_ darker?" she wondered to Walter, who was sprawled on his stomach a little way off, staring dreamily at the horizon, building pink and purple castles full of dreams. "Aunt Leslie said she _thought_ it might be, when last she was here. But _I_ think she was just being polite."

Di sighed; she was nineteen years old and she had not yet become resigned to her red hair. It was really _so_ vivid. If only it was a soft, muted auburn, as Jem's was turning out to be, or ripely, ruddily red, like little Rilla's. If she had not learned to accept her hair for what it was by now, there was not much chance she ever would.

Walter reached over and undid the clasp that held her hair up—it tumbled down over her shoulders.

"This coil'd hair on your head, unroll'd,

Fell down you like a gorgeous snake," he quoted. Walter could not help quoting poetry, any more than he could help writing it. "I've often thought of Browning's words when I look at your pretty russet tresses, Di o'mine."

Di sighed again. Walter never told falsehoods, so if he said he thought her hair pretty, he must mean it. But then, Walter was her brother. Di looked at him from under her lowered lashes. If only they looked more alike! But they couldn't possibly have looked less like brother and sister if they had tried.

Walter was pale and velvety, and the contrast of his dark hair against his moon-pale skin had made many a young Glen girl sigh in admiration. Whereas Di was prone to freckles, and her skin tended to tan if she was out of doors too long, while Walter's _never_ did.

Her eyes were green—not green enough to really be striking, but green like the water of a deep, mossy woodland pool. Walter's were strikingly gray, like the first frost—like molten silver—with the fluid, easy movement of a clear waterfall.

There were only the faintest of purple shadows under those eyes of his. Di would never forget seeing him when he had come home in the spring. Then he had looked so haggard, so ill! She had known he was ill even before father came and told her about the typhoid. Oh, he had been ill for so long and they had thought—they had thought—even now, when he was safe, she uttered a prayer, under her breath and reached for his hand.

That was past, she told herself. Walter was well now, and only last month Di had said good-bye for good to her pupils at the Mowbray Narrows school where she had spent the last year 'reading and 'riting and 'rithmeticing' her heart out. She had loved her time there, but now it was as a chapter closed, and she and Walter had the whole bright summer stretching out ahead of them. Father had said Walter was well enough to partake in their old habit of moonlight rambles. He must not swim or run or over-exert himself, but if he rested, and got plenty of fresh air, he would be well enough to return to Redmond in the fall. And this year, Di would be going with him!

Oh, how they would take the college by storm! Di's eyes danced as she thought of their plans for it. Walter had the idea that they should surround themselves with a group of close, select friends—poets, like Walter, and musicians, like Di, and artists and writers besides! They would sit and talk together at cafés, and think up new ideas for the betterment of society, new ways to bring back beauty into a world which, they both felt, was sorely lacking in the beauty of the olden times. Di and Walter often sat and talked over these ideas themselves—Di looked forward to college because surely there would be other people there, who thought the same way. Walter assured it was so. Oh, she loved the Glen, but how nice it would be to talk with people who _cared_ about things other than if Mrs. Marshall Elliott had finished her _umpteenth _wedding-ring quilt, or if the minister's whiskers had been properly trimmed!

But at the moment, Di herself was bogged down by too, too mortal cares. "If only I looked more like _you_, Walter," she mused, "Or more like…"

"Nan!" Walter shook his head sorrowfully. "Di, when will you see that while Nan is very pretty—yes, I can't but admit it—there is more than _one_ way of being beautiful. Nan is lovely with her brown hair and eyes and her sweet face. But there's more to it than that. Nan _knows_ she is well-looking—more's the pity!—and so she carries herself to match it. You're far prettier than Nan, really, Diana."

"Oh, Walter!" it was Di's turn to be sorrowful. Walter sometimes spoke a little _harshly_ of Nan. They did not always behave in the most brotherly and sisterly fashion toward one another. Walter thought Nan proud—"not that she doesn't have a right to be, but she needn't show it off so much"—and Nan sometimes said that Walter's poetic airs were mere pretence. The old family adage that Jem had coined, once, when he was speaking about the long, good-natured feud between the Glen Methodists and Presbyterians, often applied between Nan and Walter: "We love each other, but we don't always understand what the other's all about."

"Oh, unfurrow your brow!" laughed Walter, looking at her worried face. "I love our Nan-girl—though not nearly as much as I love my own Diana. I shan't say anything bad about her. And I shan't compare you again—as Marlowe and mother are fond of saying, 'Comparisions are odious.' I will only tell you, Di, that I think you look like a young maple, when autumn first lays her hands upon it. All slender and golden, with a head of autumnal flame. I think you are a dryad—belonging to a maple tree. I'll write a poem about it, I think: The Dryad of the Maple Tree. Perhaps it will be the poem that finally puts me on the map of great Canadian writers—and _you_ shall be my inspiration, sister dear."

"Oh!" Di clapped her hands. "Will you write it now?"

"I wish I could," he said, standing reluctantly and looking down on her languid form. "But I must be getting back to the house."

"Why? Where are you going?"

"I promised Rilla I would take a little walk with her before supper—she is dying to unload her little heart of its gossip-burden, and I shall pretend to listen interestedly, even if I _don't_ have a burning desire to know all about Hannah Brewster's trousseau. She's desperate to go to the dance at the light tomorrow since all the rest of us are—even Shirley is going—and expects me to speak on her behalf. Susan is dead set against the idea. She still thinks Rilla in swaddling clothes. I know mother would prefer for her to stay home. She hasn't lost hope of instilling some sense of seriousness in Rilla yet."

"She'd better cross her fingers. Rilla is the silliest girl in all of Prince Edward Island. _I've_ given up hope of 'curing' her."

"We were silly, too, when we were her age," said Walter, with the attitude of one who has done and seen very much, and for whom the fire has begun to grow cold—instead of mere boy of twenty-one, whose steps still linger upon the Golden Road. "I think I _shall_ ask mother if she may go the dance—her heart will be broken if she has to stay home and watch us go—and the little kidlet deserves to have some fun. Dad told me she nearly worried herself to death when I was ill."

"We all did." A shadow passed over Di's face.

"I know—but it wasn't for naught. Didn't your prayers pull me through? I'm off, Di—but I shall save some of my energy for one of our late-night moonlight rambles later on. I want to see the moon beating a path on the sea—I want to step into a golden gondola and sail away into it—around it—to see the mystery of the moon's dark side—to hear the waves whispering a strange, ethereal song—to fly around in the stars. We will do all those things—tonight—won't we?"

"Yes—and more besides. Go on to Rilla now." Di waved him off with the contented air of a sister who is best loved by one who has a talent for loving—and more than that—with the sweet, generous air of a sister who loves well in return.


	2. At Ingleside

In her own time Di arose and rambled back to Ingleside; she was met by a commotion, for three-fourths of the manse children of old had come to call. Faith's bright laughter rang out through the glimmering dusk and her golden beauty threw a shimmering circle of warmth around her. When _had_ Faith become so lovely? It seemed only yesterday that she had been the rag-tag urchin that made the Glen throw its hands up in despair. Now, laughing with Jem in the light of the Chinese paper lanterns which had been strung up around the porch rail, she gleamed like a pearl, and her silhouette was like the warm ivory of a cameo.

Una sat in shadow, her hands full of some mending she had brought up in her basket. That was Una's way—she was always doing the little, useful things that garnered no praise but were appreciated in a roundabout sort of way. Her black hair lay smoothly on either side of her little white face; her blue eyes followed the movements of everyone else, but she seemed apart from them. That was her way, also.

Jerry, brash Jerry, with his laughing eyes, was teasing Nan—goodness, look at Nan blush! Nan _never_ blushed, and Di met Shirley's eyes significantly. They had their own suspicions—although Nan had never so much as intimated—but _still_.

"But where is Carl?" Di wondered aloud.

"Oh—he's out somewhere looking for fireflies," said Jerry, tweaking the ribbon in Nan's hair, making her blush an even deeper shade of red. Di suddenly thought it was a good thing that _she_ didn't have anyone to make her blush like that. Then she would be _all_ red. But she thought it with a little pang—that was quickly dismissed.

Good smells from Susan's kitchen wafted out. "I hope we'll be asked for supper," said Faith in her funny, blunt way. "Mother's had her hands full with little Bruce—he has the chicken-pox, you know—and Una and I planned to do the cooking ourselves. But Uncle Norman Douglas came up at dinner time with some grizzled meat and potatoes he'd cooked up—all by himself! Aunt Ellen is still getting over her cold, you know. Goodness! _It_ was macanacaddy, if macanacaddy I've ever tasted."

"Of course you'll stay to supper," said Mrs. Dr. Blythe, appearing amid all the confusion of young boys and girls, looking tall and cool in her white gown. She did not look out-of-place among the young folks—Di thought she looked rather like a girl herself. Oh, if only she were beautiful, like mother! Then she wouldn't mind her red hair!

Dear mother—sweet mother—she seemed to know what Di was thinking, and went and slipped her arm around her daughter's waist. "You've gotten some sun today, darling," she said. "Susan will make you a cream to put on your face before bed." She dropped a soothing kiss on Di's face and seated herself on the top step.

"Now," Anne wondered, dimples showing mirthfully in her cheeks, "What were we talking about—if, indeed, it _is _something you can discuss before an old lady like me?"

The boys and girls on the porch exchanged laughing glances. To think of mother—Mrs. Blythe—as an old lady!

"We were talking about the dance tomorrow night," said Shirley, in his husky little voice that always sounded raspy from disuse.

"Oh!" Faith cried, shaking her head. "Don't talk to _me_ about the dance! I wish dances at lighthouses had never been invented."

"Faith's sore because she can't dance," said Nan, with the satisfied air of one who_ could_. She, after all, wasn't a minister's daughter. She tossed a coquettish glance at Jerry and wondered if the edict against dancing extended to minister's sons as well?

"Don't be sore, Faith," pleaded Una, her needle flashing in and out of the cloth she held in her hands. "We'll have fun watching everyone else, and anyway, there's going to be a taffy pull in the kitchen."

But Faith only tossed her golden-brown curls. A taffy pull! Some people _were_ easily pleased! Oh, what was the point of going to a dance at all if she couldn't dance with Jem Blythe? She couldn't wait to be back at Redmond. People _there_ didn't have to know she was a minister's daughter, and she could dance to her heart's content.

"Ken Ford and I are trying to get up a fireworks show," said Jem from his place on the porch swing next to Faith. Di and Nan exchanged glances, on the same side of the issue for once! So Ken Ford was in town! Little Rilla would be beside herself when she heard. Di covered her smile, and Nan laughed outright. Dear little Rilla with her sweet, pretended grown up airs!

"Kenneth Ford has gotten to be exceedingly handsome," said Mrs. Blythe slyly, casting a glance at her two grown-up daughters. Nan giggled and tossed her head; Di only smiled. It was true that Ken _was_ handsome—but his dark, romantic looks did not attract her. Nearly ever other girl in the Glen and Four Winds would have swooned if he had only asked them the time of day—but to Di, he was, and always would be, her good playfellow of the House of Dreams. She harbored no secret admiration for him.

"Ken Ford's only problem is that he _knows_ he's good-looking," laughed Faith. "He's a bully—I mean, swell—chum, but he's always checking his hair in picture windows, and _expecting_ girls to fawn on him. It's the result of being a city-boy, I suppose. _I _like a man who's a little less sure of himself."

"Oh, Faith," said Una, with a nervous glance at Mrs. Blythe. She did not want the good lady of Ingleside to think that any of the manse people were running down her friends. But Mrs. Blythe only dimpled further.

"Ken Ford _is _almost too good-looking for his own good," she mused. "Leslie told me that he leaves a trail of broken hearts wherever he goes. When I was a girl, it was my deepest wish and hope for attainment that one day I should cause hearts to break all over the world. But now, looking back, I can see that that wouldn't have been very _comfortable_."

"I'm glad _I'm _not good-looking," said Faith, honestly believing that she _wasn't_,and the rest of the little group on the veranda shook their heads at her. "That way, no one can accuse _me_ of being silly or vain. My only fault seems to be that I _can't_ take anything seriously."

"We like you that way," said Jem, settling his arm companionably over her shoulders. "Nice and laughy."

"Yes—but do I laugh _too _much?" Faith wondered. "I was chuckling to myself over something as I came up here to-night, and some old spectre sitting out on Mrs. Albert Crawford's lawn shook her head at me. I don't know _who_ she is, but she looked just like a 'raven of bode and woe.'"

"She is Mrs. Sophia Crawford," pronounced Mrs. Blythe. "And I believe she is of some connection to our Susan."

"Imagine old jolly Susan having a connection like _that_!" marveled Jem. He stood, unfolding his long, lean body from the porch swing, and held out his hand to Faith. "Let's go down to Rainbow Valley and build a bonfire—the bulliest bonfire you ever saw!"

Once, it would have been an invitation for them all to go—now, it was just between the two of them. Faith's curls bobbed against her flushed cheeks. They went. Nan and Jerry slipped away sometime after that, and Di quirked up the corners of her mouth, watching them go. She _must_ find the time to ask Nan what was going on there. Tonight, perhaps, when they were tucked into bed in the little gable room that they had always shared.

Una finished her mending and bade them farewell—Shirley went quietly into the house, with his quaint, quiet little air. A minimum of fuss and noise with him. It was his way. Nan had said something today that had made Di raise her eyebrows in surprise—"_You_ must be disappointed that Persis Ford hasn't come to visit us this summer, Shirl"—and Shirley had nodded his head in a matter-of-fact way, and admitted that he _was_. Oh, the air was full of secrets, winding around like currents of spices.

Walter was still rambling with Rilla, and Dad was away on a call. They could hear Susan talking to Gertude inside the house—Gertrude Oliver, who taught at the Glen school and had been in Di and Nan's class at Queens. Gertrude had always been Di's especial chum, but she was becoming more and more Rilla's. Di did not mind entirely. There was a strange, ominous darkness in Gertrude's character that happy Di Blythe of Ingleside could not understand. Gertrude was good at humoring Susan—most of the time. "It's a fine thing to have so many of our young folks in one place for a change, and that you may tie to…"

Only Di and her mother remained out-of-doors. Mrs. Blythe turned to her daughter and looked rather rueful as she regarded her.

"_You_ don't have any midnight assignation to run away to, do you, darling?"

"No," Di said cheerily. "I'm only waiting for Walter. We have a moon-spree planned."

Mrs. Blythe looked as though this was not an entirely satisfactory answer, either. "It doesn't hurt to have a _little_ romance in your life," she said, brushing a curl from Di's face. Di submitted to the caress, and laughed.

"How could I fit any more romance in? My life is _crammed_ full of romance—with the roses and the lilies perfuming the whole world, and all of these brothers and sisters sweethearting all around me? I don't want for romance, mother. And perhaps I'll meet my 'someone' at the dance tomorrow night."

She did not think it very likely. The dance would be packed full of all the Glen boys and girls she had grown up with, and Di harboured no romantic hopes for any of them. Still, one never knew, and Mrs. Blythe seemed satisfied by her answer.

"If you wear your green dress, there won't be a heart you don't ensnare in your long, red hair, Di darling," she laughed, and went into the house to talk with Susan.

Di stayed where she was and looked out over the night. Someone had discarded a newspaper by the reed chair—she picked it up and perused it. Heavens, what a lot of dire sounding things there were going on in the world! Some Archduke Somebody had been assassinated in Sarajevo, and Britain and France seemed dreadfully upset over it. Why should they be? Di did not bother to read further to find out.

She let the paper fall to the ground, and hardly noticed when the little wayward breeze came along and picked it up and scattered all the pages. It was quite forgotten by her, and all of its contents along with it. Why should she think of them, when the roses and the lilies were out? When the pointed green firs made little hats against the low white moon, and the nightingales twittered sleepily from the trees? It was spring—it was June—and she was nineteen years old. She had the whole world at her fingertips.


	3. The Dance at the Light

Morning at Ingleside was a flurry of laughing and good smells. Jem and Shirley roughhousing on the stairs—Mother singing in the garden as she cut lilies for the breakfast table—the telephone ringing to call Dad away (poor Dad, to be called so early—he'd been away nearly all night). Susan was shooing Doc out the kitchen door, Nan was pinching her cheeks in the mirror in the hall-way, Walter was tinkling out a melody on the piano, and Di was sitting at the table, doing justice to the eggs and blueberry pancakes that Susan had made for them all.

Outwardly, she was absorbed in her breakfast, but inwardly, she was wondering what she would wear to the Lewison's dance that night. She had almost decided on her green dress—a pale, mossy, spring-y green, with little yellow flowers at the waist—when Rilla breezed in and announced that _she_ would be wearing her own dark green taffeta. For little Rilla was going to the dance—her first dance—Walter had come through in the end. Di was glad for her sister's sake, but it threw somewhat of a wrench in her plans. Rilla looked well in green—and Di did not want to be upstaged by a younger sister.

"It doesn't matter," thought she, "My yellow silk will do just as nicely, if not better. Besides, Rilla will want to look her best for Ken—and _I _have no one to dress up for. I _will_ wear my silver slippers from Aunt Leslie, whether or not Rilla wears hers. Those shoes were made for dancing, and I _do _intend to dance tonight."

Then she immediately felt guilty, for thinking of something so trivial as a dress or a dance when they did not know yet if war between Germany and France would be averted. Di did not fully understand why there was even the possibility that there might _be_ a war. She had not known there might be one until she had heard father and Jem talking about it at supper. Di knew she had sadly neglected her current events since the school term had ended. But oh! It was so nice to read nothing but lurid, fantastical novels which mother _and _Gertrude wholeheartedly disapproved of—and Walter's poems, of course. She had not wanted to wear out her already-tired brain with more 'ologies and isms.'

The newspaper was folded beside Father's chair, and its stark black headlines beckoned. But Di left it where it was.

"I shall just think positively," she told herself, as she finished her breakfast. "If I hope hard enough—and pray—then surely the crisis will not come to pass. Besides—I couldn't think of anything like war today—not when it is so lovely and golden-cloudy out—not when the roses and the daffodils are beckoning—not when such dear white clouds are sweeping 'cross the sky. If good news doesn't come by tomorrow, I promise to sit right down and read all about this war—but I am sure that good news _will_ come."

With that settled, she leaped up from her chair and went out into the bright day. She spent the morning rambling through all the old spots she loved so well—had loved from childhood. And in the loveliness of that hazy, purple June, all thought of war was duly forgotten.

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The yellow dress was donned and Di's hair was brushed until it snapped like a red, flickering flame. She had no good jewelry—only a string of amber beads—but fasted round her throat and glinting there in the low lamplight they looked like drops of honey and made her neck look long and kissable and appealing. Anne Blythe wondered, as she watched her daughter arranging her curls in the mirror, why no boy had ever come along to kiss it. Nan had been for ever garnering male attention, but the boys of the Glen seemed to regard Di as friend only—and Di seemed to like it that way.

Nan had a spray of pink roses from Jerry, but Di did not begrudge her those roses. She loved roses—in their place. But anyone could think of roses. Di had a rope of honeysuckle and a note from Walter. She pinned the honeysucked in her hair and wound it about her slender waist. She gloated over herself a few moments more and tripped gaily downstairs.

"What a handsome lot of people we are!" she thought, as she joined her chums.

Everyone paired off on the walk to the harbour. Jem had his hand clasped lightly in Faith's. Shirley and Una were walking together and Di's wheels worked, trying to think of a match between the two. It would suit—they were both so quiet. But how silent and grave their dinner-table would be. She laughed. Oh, _look _at Carl Meredith, escorting pallid little Miranda Pryor just to make Joe Milgrave jealous! What a character!

Jerry and Nan were arguing goodnaturedly in low tones. Goodness, had Nan just said something about 'war?' Di scowled. She wished they could leave all of that alone for tonight. It was such a beautiful night. Di took her seat in the dory and let the wind over the water ruffle her curls. She caught Rilla sending her envious little glances as Walter sat down next to her, and Di wound her arm through his.

"There is no one for me but my own Diana," he told her, and Di laughed again, this time at herself. How silly she was to think a little sister could ever usurp her in Walter's heart. They understood each other perfectly, and always would. Always, Di vowed, looking up at the stars. Always—and forever.

The lighthouse was beckoning to them over the dark channel—the beacon light flashing round and round cheerily, as if to say, "Come along, you who are out in the dark. Here you will find respite from your troubles—and fun—and good times. The boat docked and Di looked up at the glittering pavilion, lighted with twinkling fairy lamps. The rock-cut steps leading up from the pier to the harbour light was lined with Chinese lanterns which glowed out in a friendly and inviting way. There were crepe banners everywhere, and Di seemed to float toward the sounds of laughter and gaiety and music.

"How nice of the Lewisons to put this on for us," she exclaimed.

Di knew very little about the Lewisons. They were from Charlottetown, and they were here for the summer, and they were Methodists, so their paths did not often cross with those of the Inglesidians. But Di had met Hazel Lewison at a party over-harbour—and she had seen David Lewison at Carter Flagg's store. He was not a disagreeable looking fellow. In fact, she rather liked the looks of him. He had sandy brown hair and a wide smile. One of his eyes was blue and the other green. That added a certain mysteriousness to his otherwise open, friendly face. He could almost have been one of the boys she had palled around with in childhood, except that there was a neat, polished, citified shine to his clothes and his mannerisms. He had asked her the best place to go for clam-digging, and Di had offered to show him the little cove down by the harbour head. That had been the extent of her relations with David Lewison, and had been weeks ago.

She supposed he never thought of her again after that. Why should he? _She_ thought of him not over-often—very infrequently, actually. But the times she did she had wondered more about him. He had such a jolly smile—what kind of man was he? What kind of things did he like? She suddenly hoped very much that he was here tonight—and that she should get a chance to dance with him.

But before she could look around for him, she was met by a tall, fair youth—one of the over-harbour people—who sought her hand for a dance. Di acquiesced prettily. She knew the boy had a 'crush' on Nan, and since Nan was being attended to by Jerry, she supposed he thought one of the Ingleside twins should have to make do for the other. She whirled around happily for a little while, but the boy stepped all over her toes, and she soon had to excuse herself or else be crippled by him.

She climbed up to the verandah and stood sipping a cup of punch and watching the other dancers. Rilla looked elated as she took a spin with Ken. Oh, it was nice of him to make sure Rilla wasn't a wallflower at her first dance! Nan and Jerry had disappeared somewhere. Di hoped they would not be caught out at 'spooning'—mother would be shocked and Susan horrified.

Odious Irene Howard was waltzing with one of the Lewisons' friends—some son of a bank trustee who was filthy rich. Irene would have never paid him the time of day if he wasn't. Walter was talking with Una in the rose-garden. Di did not know why, but she always felt a little flicker of—_something_—when she saw Una and Walter together. Perhaps it was only because they _looked_ like the perfect pair—both so dark and pale, together.

She leaned her chin on her hand and was enjoying her vantage point, and was so engrossed in her own musings that she was surprised to find that someone had joined her at the porch-rail and had taken up her position as his own. Di looked over and a pair of mismatched eyes met her own green ones.

"Are you practicing to be a society columnist?" David Lewison asked her, and he adopted an elegant drawl. "'Miss Irene Howard was resplendent in blue shot-silk and pearls, though _some_ said it was perhaps too dressy for a country dance—and _very_ likely donned in the hopes of catching the eye of one Mr. Jonas, Esquire, son and heir to Jonas and Jonas, Charlottetown.'"

Di laughed, despite herself. She knew that she should not, but his observation of Irene was spot-on. "Irene always wears fine feathers," she told her companion, "But oh! Mr. Lewison, this may be a 'country dance' to _you_—but to us it is a grand party. We're only country bumpkins, you know."

"Don't laugh self-consciously," he told her. "_You_ couldn't ever be a bumpkin of any sort. And you must call me David—for I already think of you as Diana."

She blushed, and could not think of how to fill the silence. He went on,

"Have you ever met someone whose name seemed to suit them—perfectly? Mother called me 'David' because she hoped I would be wise—and brave—and a poet. I'm none of those things. If Mumsy was looking for a Biblical name she should have called me Peleg or Eliphaz, one of those dusty names from Chronicles, after people who didn't do things but begat and begat and begat and then die off to make way for really important folks. But you _are_ Diana—Diana the Huntress. I thought of it the moment I first saw you."

"Mother has a statuette of the goddess Diana in the parlour," said Di, feeling stupid that it was all she could think of to say. Then she reached out to take his hand in a gesture of sudden friendliness. "_You_ must call me Di—all my friends do."

"So we are to be friends," said David Lewison, looking pleased. "I'm glad. I wanted to be friends with you and yours as soon as I heard of you. The Blythes—such an enchanting sounding family! Your surname suits you, too, you know. Are we to dance? Will you do me the honor of allowing me to pencil my name on your card?"

Di handed it over with a trill of laughter—what a funny chap he was! How quickly he went back and forth between formal and familiar. He brandished a pencil from his jacket-pocket and bent over her card. He stopped before handing it back and looked at her.

"You _do_ want to dance with me?"

"Oh—well, yes, I do."

"Good," said David Lewison and gave her her card. "Because dance _we_ shall."

Di saw that he had copied his name neatly into every blank space. He had claimed her for the night, leaving no room for any others.

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David was a divine dancer. It was, he told Di very seriously, the result of many lessons he had been forced to attend by his lady mother. "Tennis didn't take, and I never practised the violin for long enough to be good at it. But dancing seemed to stick to me—I didn't have a choice in the matter."

The first dance was a fox-trot and they fox-trotted; and then the band played a rag-time tune and they one-stepped with great aplomb. The third dance was a waltz, and by then, Di Blythe was well on her way to being in love with this interesting stranger. David. She felt at once that it _was_ love she had suddenly, and without warning, fallen into. Her head was in the clouds—beautiful, rosy, sunset clouds. She wondered that her feet should touch the ground at all.

She heard a sudden whoop from the lawn and thought of Jem, but she was too engrossed in her new feeling to pay any heed. She did not notice Jack Elliott turn to face the little crowd that had gathered around and did not hear what he told them. She did not see Nan go pale and clutch at Jerry's arm—she did not see Faith look hurriedly into Jem's face—she did not see Walter's eyes go black and she was not one of the ones who heard the words of portent which fell from his lips and echoed down the halls of human history.

It was a moment that would mark the beginning of many changes in many lives, and Di Blythe had missed it. Jem's 'hurrahs!' were lost to her—Jerry's protestations that they must run up the flag—Alan Daly's proclamation that this must be Armageddon—the Piper's sweet, strange music which began to play in low, insistent tones.

Di Blythe took note of none of this. For the first time in her life, she was in love, and as she leaned her head on David Lewison's shoulder, she felt as though her feet—and her soul—both had wings.

_Author's Note: The last line is a play on the last line from Rilla of Ingleside, Chapter III. To all of those who have asked, this story will follow my 'Alice' trilogy—NOT the Cecilia stories. Thanks for reading! _


	4. All  ' Catawampus '

Di looked around at the fading summer flowers. It was August—where had the summer gone? The beautiful summer that was supposed to have been meant for fun and languor—and laughter—had changed into something else entirely.

Oh, there had been good parts of it. She touched the letter in her dress pocket and smiled a secret, fond smile. The letter was from David—of course. Hardly a day went by that she did not get a letter from him. Sometimes it was a long, chatty letter, full of news from town and little queries about herself—sometimes it was a quick, scrawled note, praising her eyes or hair or her sweet mannerisms or her charm. Di was hard pressed to say which was the more rapturous to receive.

She had awoken the morning after the dance with a head full of sweet dreams that lingered through her waking. Everyone else had gone 'catawampus,' as Susan so aptly pronounced things to be. The war between England and Germany was no longer a possibility—it was a reality. Di's romance was lost in the tumult of the days that followed.

She was glad—oh, it felt terrible to be glad in any way about something so awful as war. But it, at least, gave them all something to talk about. if there had been no war, the breakfast conversation would have focused on her budding love-affair. Mother would had been interested and dad chagrined, and Susan horrified because the Lewisons were decidedly Methodist. If the overseas phone call had not come for Jem—if he had not turned to face them with the light of a thousand, shining lighted lamps in his eyes—and told them that he meant to enlist—that he must go away to fight—perhaps Di would have had to withstand a certain amount of teasing. As it was, no one thought of teasing. No one thought of anything except that Jem was going—Jem was going away to fight in a war.

Jem—and Jerry! Di had not been able to forget the look on Nan's face when Jem had said that he must call up to the manse—for Jerry would want to go, too. Nan had put her hand to her throat and cried, "Oh!" in strangled tones, and there was no longer any doubt in Di's heart as to the truth of the matter there. She found Nan in Rainbow Valley, sobbing into her skirt.

"He can't go—Di—he mustn't—I love him so."

Somehow Di had found soothing words. She had stroked Nan's hair and wrapped her arms fiercely about her twin. Nan was good and sweet-souled—why must the world want to hurt her? Her throat felt choked and her eyes welled with sympathetic tears.

But for some reason—she did not know why—Di did not tell Nan about David.

David—dear David. Oh, her heart had nearly broken two weeks ago when he had had to go back home. She had cried a little into his shoulder and he had kissed her. It was Di's first kiss, and she went hot and cold with pleasure even at the memory of it.

"I wish I could stay, darlingest," David told her, kissing her fingertips. "But Mumsy wants to get back. Harry—my _elder_ brother—has been making noise about joining up and Mother can't bear to hear of that. He's her pet, and she wants to keep him close. I wish Harry would go—oh, I don't really—but I'm sore at him. He's taking me away from my girl a whole month early."

"You won't do anything silly like enlist, will you David?" Di was urgent on this point.

David looked thoughtful. "I wouldn't think of it—not right away, at least. I'd like to let this war settle in and see where it's going, first. It wouldn't make sense to go through the motions of enlisting if it will all be over in a few weeks, as father says it will, and in the meantime, I'll slog away at St. Dunstan's, same as always. But oh! Kitchener of Khartoum says the war will last three years, at least—and if it does, Di—well, I'll have to go, then."

"Kitchener is entitled to his opinions, like everyone else, I suppose," retorted Di, hating that good man bitterly under her fiery hair.

David drew her near. "Let's write to each other every day, Diana. Even if it's just a line of 'x'es to stand for…" He kissed her again.

No one knew about David save for Walter. And Walter had not seemed as glad about it as Di had thought he would. Walter was not himself, lately. He had a preoccupied air, as though he was listening to music that was far away. Sometimes a cold, pale look came over his face and his eyes grew black and he scowled. Walter _never_ scowled.

"Do you think that I should go—with Jem and Jerry?" he asked suddenly, as they were rambling through Rainbow Valley.

Di looked up at him with fresh understanding. Was that what was making him low? She shook her head emphatically, and her curls bounced back and forth against her cheeks.

"I don't see how you _could_ go," she said honestly. "It would almost kill mother if the two of you were to go away at once. And you aren't strong yet, Walter. Father said you should avoid all strenuous activity for a year—he was adamant that you shouldn't play football this term. And fighting a war is far more strenuous than playing football."

"I don't want to play football—or go to war," Walter said, jamming his hands in his pockets. "Jem and Jerry are going, in a white flame of sacrifice. They are willing to make the ultimate sacrifice—their lives for their land—and I'm not. I don't want to fight other men—and kill them—and I don't want to be killed. It is selfish of me."

"It _isn't_ selfish," Di said stubbornly. "It isn't selfish—you are only afraid. It makes perfect sense to be afraid of war—war is frightning. There is no shame in fear, Walter. Oh, my darling! I'm glad you can't go. Let someone else go—not you."

The moment she had said it, she knew it was the wrong thing. Walter's lips tightened; his eyes blazed.

"The 'someone else' who is going is your own brother, Diana. Do you think that my life is worth more than his, because you happen to love me more? How shall you feel if Jem is killed? What will you think then? Will you still be glad it wasn't me?"

Di made a low sound, shocked and hurt by his sudden outrage. She and Walter had never quarreled before in their whole lives. She felt a little sick, and her heart beat painfully inside her ribs. Her eyes were swimming with sudden, confused, _hurt_ tears.

"I—love—Jem," she started. "I—I should be—devastated—if anything—if anything…"

Walter's eyes flashing eyes dulled; he arranged his features in an approximation of his old good humor.

"I shouldn't have jumped on you," he said apologetically, taking her hand. "I'm sorry, Di. It was rude—and terribly wrong—of me."

Di was thinking of Jem's sunny, happy face—scarred by shrapnel—dull and white in death, the light blotted out from his eyes. She was thinking of him in pain and agony. She was seeing him battered and bloody and broken. Why had Walter made it so that she should think these things?

"It—it doesn't matter," she told him weakly. "I'm sorry—too, Walter."

He smiled at her. "Pax, then," he said, and then added, "After all—there is no one for me but my own Diana."

He had said these words to her a thousand times—this was the first time they had ever sounded hollow, and lacking. They walked back to the house in silence, and Walter went off to the garden. She saw him sit down next to Rilla. Di watched him as he turned his back to her so that she could not see his face.

She did not mark this conversation then with any significance except that Walter was upset—and overwrought. Their first—and only—quarrel was quickly glossed over, and within the day they were back to being the friends that they had always been.

But, in later life, whenever Di was to look back on it, she would always think that that had been the moment when Walter had started to go away from her—or perhaps, when they started to go away from one another.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Drat this war," said Di, wishing that she could use something stronger than imitation cursing to express her feelings.

She pulled herself out of bed, wishing she could go back and sleep another year—or two—or for the three that Kitchener said it would take for the war to be finished. It was raining—thank heavens the rain had let off until today. It had been predicted for yesterday—and Di did not think they could have stood rain, on top of everything else.

Jem and Jerry had gone away yesterday. What a ghastly experience it had been, with everyone pretending to be happy when they were not. Nan had worn a smile so stiff and starch that Di feared it would crack her face in two. She had worn it all through the day, even after the train carrying Jerry and Jem had rounded the curve and gone out of sight.

But that night, Di had heard her sobbing into her pillow. When she had crept over and slipped into bed beside her sister, Nan had cried, "Oh, go away!" but Diana had persisted, wrapping her arms about her until her twin stopped shaking. This morning, they were both pale and wan and tired-looking, and Nan's eyes had been red and puffy.

"Drat the war," Di said again.

She opened her desk drawer and pulled out a long, white envelope and considered it. It was a letter from David—she had gotten it two days ago but she had not wanted to read it right away. She had wanted to save it for a time when she needed cheering—and she needed cheering now. She tore the envelope, lifted the letter out, and unfolded it. The sight of David's slanted, looping script made her smile—a tiny, tired smile—but a smile nonetheless.

"Dearest Diana," she read, and one by one, line by line, her cares were stripped away.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Di was glad when it was her turn to take leave of Ingleside. She had never been glad to leave home before, but there was something strange and unsettling about the place with Jem gone. Of course, he had been away before, on visits to Green Gables, but this time there seemed a deep permanence to his absence. It was unsettling.

Mother went around with a face that looked tired and drawn and _old_, and everyone (including Di) was so determinedly cheerful. It was exhausting. At night, she was asleep before her head hit the pillow. A Ladies' Red Cross had sprung up overnight, Methodists and Presbyterians tossing aside their old feuds willy-nilly to be of service to the boys in khaki, and Di had done her part dutifully and enthusiastically. But her hands basted sheets in her sleep.

If only they were in Kingsport! Things would be different there. Walter would immerse himself in his studies and go back to his old, happy, dreamy ways. The hunted, hungry look would leave his eyes. Nan could go to parties and wear her new pretty dresses, and the little, longing look would leave her face. They could meet new people—people who did not sigh and sigh again—people who would talk about interesting things instead of war, war, and more war. War news, war predictions, war stories, war…

And perhaps in Kingsport her own sleep would not be so troubled. She would not toss and turn, and wake suddenly, wondering if Jem and Jerry were warm enough in their camp at Valcartier. She would not dream that David had joined up, too—she would have something else to think about besides the fact that his letters of late mentioned too often the number of boys from his neighborhood—his class—who were in khaki. Oh, if God were good, he would keep David from going—he would keep David from going away, too!

Di, who had once looked forward to college for fun and romance, now welcomed it for another reason: it would take her mind off of so many unpleasant things.


	5. A Beginning

_David! _

_You won't believe what has happened at Ingleside—no, we haven't had another 'leaving'—thank God! Instead, we've had an addition to the family. This next part must be written italics—for that is how I think of it_. Rilla has brought home a little orphan baby. _There!_

_I was basting (another) sheet for the Red Cross Society when she brought it in—by it, I mean 'him.' It's a wee, man child she's found for us. Apparently, its (his!) mother is dead, and its (his! I must start ascribing a gender to the little mite, even if it's only by way of pronoun) father has shipped overseas. I thought Rilla was quite crazy, coming here with a baby, just like that, until she explained that Old Mrs. Conover had been looking after it until now. Mrs. Conover is a shoddy, shiftless type. I heard once she'd drowned her husband's Newfoundland puppy once in a fit of pique at him. Imagine how cruel you'd have to be to take your pique out on a poor, defenseless puppy! When I remembered that old tale, I knew Rilla had done the right thing in bringing the baby here. _

_But is it to stay? That seems to be the hotly debated question. Of course there is no question, really, of sending it to an asylum. Mother would never hear of it. But Rilla is dithering about it. Father has laid down an edict: if the baby stays at Ingleside, Rilla shall have the primary responsibility for him. She keeps wringing her hands and saying, 'What shall _I _do with a baby? What shall I do?' I know what she shall do, for I have learnt over the past few months that Rilla really does have a grain or two of sense in her pretty head. She'll do her duty by this young Canadian and she'll do it with no stuff and nonsense—when the time comes. All this hand-wringing is just pretence. _

_It _is _nice to have something to think of other than war and basting sheets. I held the infant for an hour today, while Rilla slept, just looking down into its little face and marveling over all the possibilities I found in it._

_Of course, it cries a great deal, and is colicky, and at night I have to stuff my ears with cotton wool and even then I am cruelly awakened by its screams every hour on the hour. I suppose it is just another reason to be glad that 1__st__ September is drawing near…_

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

There was an exodus from Ingleside at the start of September. Shirley was packed away to Queens, and Nan and Di and Walter left for Kingsport, and Redmond College.

Di was morose for the first stretch of her journey, but by the time they had reached the old town, a little ripple of excitement had gone through her. This mellow, quaint old place was to be her home for the next four years. She was coming to it as just Diana Blythe—with any hope, she would take her leave of it as Diana Blythe, B.A.

She felt sorrowful again when they parted ways with Walter—he was rooming in the men's dormitory. Di waved him off with tears in her eyes and it was only when she remembered that she was about to get a glimpse of her own new home that she brightened up.

How lucky they were to have Faith Meredith! Faith, who had done all the work in finding a suitable house for them to rent. "It isn't Patty's Place," she admitted—for Faith knew the family lore as well as the twins—"But it's sweet all the same. It's a little cottage on the bay—used to be a summer cottage for a rich family, before the city spread."

"Near the bay?" Nan had inquired. "Won't it be terribly far from the college?"

"Not too far," Faith assured her. "Any anyway, there's a trolley that rumbles past on the hour, every hour. The clanging of its bell will drive you mad—for a little while—but its terribly convenient. It's dim and poky in places but altogether loveable—and you'll love it, girls, you _will_."

"One Happy Family Way," Di recited the address to the taxi driver, giggling over it. But she hoped it would be an omen of nice things to come. She hoped that she would come to see her roommates as part of her extended family—"Just like mother and Aunt Jo and Aunt Stella and Aunt Pris."

Faith had found two other girls to share the cottage—there were two big bedrooms. The twins would share, of course, and Faith didn't mind sharing, and the little servants quarters could be taken over for the odd girl out. The girls who had responded to her ad, Faith reported, were called Pauline and Alice, and they had seemed perfectly nice. But you know, you never can tell about a person until they're under your roof…

"Oh, Faith didn't say it was so lovely," Di cried, as she caught her first glimpse of their home. It was a white clapboard cottage upon a sandstone foundation—cheerful yellow shutters closed against the windows, and there was a green slate roof. The whole thing was set back from the main road against a copse of dark firs, through which the bay glittered at intervals. And there were _heaps _of bold, bright tiger-lilies in the garden.

"It looks like something out of a fairytale," murmured Nan appreciatively. Nan _had_ always been taken with fanciful things. She looked much cheerier—much more like her old self—as they climbed the walk to open the yellow-painted door with their funny, old-fashioned brass key.

"I wonder if we'll find an enchanted princess inside," she wondered, and Di giggled.

"Or an old witch, with nefarious plans."

But they found only Faith, who greeted them exuberantly, and their other two housemates. Pauline was a girl with sweet brown ringlets and doe-eyes, and Di gasped to see her. "Pauline!" she cried, at the same time Pauline cried, "Di!" They flung their arms around each other and turned laughingly to Faith.

"You didn't tell me she was Pauline Reese," said Di to Faith in mock sternness.

"And _you _didn't tell me she was Diana _Blythe_," cried Pauline.

"I didn't know there should be any connection," said poor Faith, who was really quite bewildered.

"Pauline and I were chums in the way back when," said Di, giving her old friend a squeeze. "We were at the Glen School together before her family moved West. I've always hoped that we would reconnect and now we have!" The girls smiled at each other.

Alice hung back, sweet and serious-looking under her cap of blonde fluff. "I'm Alice Parker," she volunteered shyly, when the tumult of first meeting had calmed down. "I hail from Lowbridge…"

The twins squealed again. "Lowbridge!" cried Nan, "Why, we're practically neighbors. We're from Glen St. Mary."

"Then I know who _you_ are," exclaimed Alice. "You are Dr. Blythe's girls—of Ingleside."

"And you must be Dr. Parker's daughter," said Di. "Our dad speaks highly of your father."

"And mine of yours," blushed Alice.

"What a small world it is!" laughed Faith. "To come all the way to Nova Scotia and find ourselves in the company of old friends." She smiled around the group—they all _did _seem to be old friends, right away.

_David, I wish you could see the view from my bedroom window. (Oh, wouldn't Susan be shocked if she knew I'd written anything about my bedroom to a 'gentleman friend!') But it really is lovely. It looks down a little grassy dell that peters off into a little rocky cove. The dell is filled with buttercups and I shall have the sound of the surf to lull me asleep. _

_Faith and Alice have taken the upstairs room and made it very homey. Ally has a knack for making things homey—she whipped up a pair of curtains out of two old lace tablecloths tied back with ribbon for our 'sitting room' and fashioned a pair of cushions out of two squashy pillows covered with a new fabric. She's loveable to the core._

_Pauline will sleep in the servants quarters, because she is a self-admitted night owl. She is studying philosophy, and so she will be able to sit up all night wrestling with the questions of existence without any disturbance from the rest of us._

_The house comes furnished, of course, and the last tenants left behind some treasures for us: a set of yellow crockery that looks like it was made of sunshine—an old, out-of-tune piano—some deck chairs—and a Victrola. So we're perfectly cosy here and contented with our lot. I think 'One Happy Family Way' will end up living up to its name. We are so friendly here that I should hate to spoil our good times by studying—but I intend to. Nan and I battled it out for top marks at Queens and I beat her—but just barely. She is sure to fight with a vengeance to come out on top this time. We are both studying literature and there is only_ one _High Honors in the subject. I am determined to win it, and she as well, but we shall have to leave the resolution of the issue to some day four years hence. _

_For now, I have everything my heart desires—almost. If _you_ were here, I should be able to leave the 'almost' out. _


	6. Letters from Di

The war that Di had hoped to forget by coming to Kingsport seemed closer than ever. It no longer lurked in the background, but had been brought to the forefront of everything. The horrors of Liege—and Namur—and Brussels—kept Di awake and staring at her ceiling o'nights. Every week a male face disappeared from one of her classes, and there was a whispered rumor, a suggestion, that of course this vanished classmate must be in khaki by now.

"I've joined the Collegiate Red Cross," she wrote in a long letter to David. "I thought I could get away from Red Cross work at college, but it turns out I can't. Every pair of hands is needed. Besides—my conscience wouldn't let me shirk even if I _could_. I can't think of anything besides what the Kaiser's army is doing to poor little Belgium. When you think of it, David, the Belgians are fairly innocuous on the international scale—Dad told me once that they are simple, peaceful, farming sort of folk. Wholesome and good—and now to have such tragedy visited upon them—but then, no one does. It hardly seems _fair_, but if I am learning anything about war, it is that it isn't fair at _all_.

"So basting sheets and knitting socks seems to be my albatross. I shall try to shoulder it with as much grace as I can. Luckily, I was taught to knit by a true master—Mrs. Rachel Lynde of Avonlea, PEI. I wonder if, when Mrs. Rachel set the heel of my first pair of socks (they were to be a present for father), she could even contemplate the usefulness of that skill in my later life. I hope not. I've been thinking a lot about the old Green Gables folks lately. Dear, hardy, sensible, good-hearted Marilla—dear gossipy, good-hearted Mrs. Rachel. Of course Jem was Marilla's favourite—we all knew that—but I believe Mrs. Rachel liked _me _best. I have a practical streak—for a Shirley and a Blythe—that she recognized and cultivated. Those dear, darling women! David, when I think of them, I understand for the first time why people _have_ to die. Marilla and Mrs. Rachel could not have withstood the war as _we _will have to. They were a different sort of people, from a slower, simpler time. This war would have _hurt _them—hurt them terribly—and I am glad they are not here to see it.

"But don't you worry, darlingest! I haven't forgotten that I'm to have a _little_ fun. Besides the CRC, I've joined the Literary Society—and been drafted into the Drama Club. They're putting on one of the Henrys this term—Shakespeare simply packed it with male parts—and we're losing boys by the minute. So the instructor has flipped it all around and the men will play the ladies, and the ladies, the men. I'm to play Bedford, in a striped doublet and hose—I feel terribly bare when I take to the stage in those hose. Oh, for the safety of a few layers of petticoat! Susan is aghast and tells me so weekly by letter.

"Pauline has forced me to accompany her to the Philosophical Society—under her cheerful exterior, she's really a shy duck. But not so shy as Alice—dear Alice. I already love her mightily. I just wish she had more confidence. She is doing art, and the professor criticised her drawing the other day—very mildly, as I understand it. But criticism is criticism, and it is a bitter pill no matter how much jam you wrap around it. Alice took it on the chin, but I heard her sobbing in the garret that evening. I tried my best to comfort her, but I've never been especially good at being comforting. Luckily Walter stopped by and found us—and _he_ spoke so gently and nicely to Alice it brought tears to my eyes. If anyone can bring Ally out of her shell, it is Walter.

"He escorted her to the 'Freshie' dance last week. It turns out that Walter and Alice knew each other in the way back—I forget exactly how their paths crossed—and they already consider each other kindred spirits. What a splendid couple they make! He so dark, and she so fair! My wheels set to spinning, and I asked Walter if he had a _eensy_ soft spot for Alice, way down in the cockles of his heart. He looked fairly shocked at the suggestion.

"'Alice Parker is the most beautiful creature I ever saw,' he told me, quite seriously, 'If I were a painter, she would be my Mona Lisa. I should like to write poems praising her golden hair and sparkling eyes. She is sweet to the core—but I should never want to spoil that sweetness by falling in love with her."

"I couldn't fathom what he meant by that. But I suppose I shall learn. I've had to learn so much simply by standing on my own feet. It's a new sensation for me. We Inglesidian children have always had mother and Susan to do things for us. It's nice to be looked after, but it would be more comfortable for me _now_ if perhaps I hadn't been. I don't mean that we should be allowed to run unsupervised over the Glen like the Drews, but that it's useful to know how to do things for yourself.

"For example, we invited Miss Carmichael from the music department to supper with us last week. Nan and I did the shop—and bought a ham. It was such a nice, pink, juicy ham. We were very pleased with it. Nan and I arranged it on the table with some cress—very artfully, I might add. How puffed up and proud we were of ourselves!

"We carried the ham out and set it before Faith, and motioned for her to carve it—and she just _looked_ at us and burst into giggles. Oh, David, that ham hadn't been _cooked_! I always suppose they just came cooked up and ready to eat. But I know differently now, and I didn't even have to go to class to learn the error of my ways.

As mother is always fond of saying, "There's a powerful pile o' knowledge, that you never get at college—there are heaps of things you never learn at school."'

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Di and Walter walked together underneath the canopy of autumn leaves in Old St. Johns. It was a wet, windy day, and it had begun to drizzle, but brother and sister both had an umbrella and so were dry if not entirely cosy. Besides, the weather suited a walk through the graveyard—it was more atmospheric this way than if the sun had been shining brightly. Di was in good spirits. She had had a long, chatty letter from David only tht morning—and with it, a promise of a future visit to look forward to. David would come up from town to be her escort for the autumn social. She had received high marks of praise on her term-paper—the Germans had been turned back at the battle of the Marne—and Di was very nearly perfectly happy.

She rambled to and fro, pausing sometimes to murmur and inscription on one of the graves—or to laugh over a name engraved thereon. "Minerva Miniver," she read, laughing, casting her eyes to Walter. "Why, that's a Dickensian name if I've ever heard one!"

Her eyes were merry and full of light—but they dimmed to see Walter standing forlorn and grim-faced a few paces away. "What is it?" she cried, stricken by the look of hurt in his eyes. "Oh, Walter—what is wrong?"

He turned his face away and tightened his lips.

"The _Quarterly_ has rejected my poem. They aren't going to publish it, after all."

"Oh!" Di was shocked. She had read the series of sonnets 'To Rosamund' over many times and delighted in the vivid imagery, the word play, the beautiful sights and sounds that it evoked. She thought it a masterpiece—the truth was that it was very good work for a boy of only a little above twenty-one.

"Why?" she wondered aloud. "'Rosamund is much better than any of that drivel the _Quarterly_ usually posts. I thought it was as good as done, Walter. Didn't Dr. Milne tell you that it was to be the featured poem in the fall issue?"

"Yes—but that was before."

"Before…?"

"Before," said Walter clearly, "Dr. Milne's two sons enlisted."

A delicate pause ensued, during which Di tried frantically to think of what connection that might have to anything. So what if the Milne boys were in khaki? What difference could that make to whether Walter's poem was published? Except Dr. Milne was the editor of the _Quarterly _and…

"Oh!" said Di, clapping her hand over her mouth. "Oh, no!"

"Yes," said Walter bitterly.

Di shook her head, her red hair scattering droplets of rain. "That's preposterous," she told Walter staunchly. "Dr. Milne _likes_ you, Walter. Didn't he tell you that you had the best ear for rhyme in any student he'd ever seen?"

"Dr. Milne has suddenly become very cold to any able-bodied fellow who isn't in khaki."

"But you _aren't_ able-bodied," cried Di furiously. "You aren't strong yet! The typhoid—"

Walter's fingers dug into her upper arm.

"Listen to me, Di," he hissed. "I've been well over the typhoid for weeks now. I think its time we stopped using it as an excuse."

"It isn't an excuse…"

"Yes it is. We've all been using it to excuse my not going—even myself. Dad thinks of it. I've seen him look at me since Jem went with a sort of curious, furrowed brow. He's been wondering why I haven't joined to—why I haven't been brave, like Jem. He is ashamed of my not going—and then I see his features relax as he tells himself, 'It's the typhoid,'—even though it was Dad who gave me a clean bill of health on our last visit home."

"No, no, Walter…"

"So let us stop putting the blame where it doesn't belong and call a spade a spade, Diana. I'm not ill—my body is as fit as ever—it is my mind that is unfit. I can't go—don't _want_ to go—because I am a coward."

Di was weeping, openly. The tears cascaded swiftly down her flushed cheeks. Her dear brother—her darling brother—how could people think such horrible things about him? How could he think such horrible things about himself?

"You _aren't_ a coward, Walter," she sobbed. "You mustn't say you are. Oh, it _hurts _me to hear you say you are."

"The truth often hurts," Walter said, with more bitterness than she had ever heard in his voice. He turned away from her outstretched hands and made his way down the path. Di heard the iron gate clink shut as he left the old-graveyard. She knew she must go after him but she felt rooted in place by shock and sorrow. It had begun to rain in earnest, and water poured in rivulets from her umbrella. She was damp and chill, the sky was flat and gray. It seemed to Di as though not only she, but the whole world, was crying.


	7. Wait for Me '

"There are plenty of things I _should_ be thinking about," confessed Di to Pauline one vibrant November afternoon—so strange for November, which was often a dreary, unremarkable month. "I have a paper on the _Canterbury Tales _that is due Monday and is in dire need of polishing before other eyes can see it. The German army is trying to take poor little Łódź even as we speak. Rilla wrote to tell me that mother has a bad cold. All of these are good and noble things to spend my thoughts on—but instead, I am planning what I shall wear to the autumn social."

She gave a deprecating little smile, but really, did not feel _too_ badly about where her thoughts wended. David was to escort her to this dance—and she had not seen him since the summer-time. She wanted to look well for him.

"And all my dresses have been worn to death," she rued.

"We'll do a swap, then!" cried Polly merrily. "We're all about the same size—and height—except for Alice. She's so slender and coltish. But I'll lend _you_ a dress—you can choose one of mine—and Faith and Nan can raid each other's closets.

The girls spent a good many of the now-frosty evenings before the dance trying on each other's pretty frocks and experimenting with new ways to wear their hair. They all had someone to look nice for. Nan would wear Faith's rose taffeta, and Pauline had several sophs which she hoped to impress in Di's ice-blue crepe. Jem might be overseas, but "I dress to please _myself_," Faith told the others, and borrowed Nan's cream lace dress with sprigs of rosebuds on it.

Di had decided on splendid purple gown of Pauline's—she had never known she might wear purple with her red hair but it really looked quite nice.

"David will love you in it," said Polly wickedly.

"David?" wondered Faith. "D'you mean David _Lewison_? Diana Barry Blythe! Are you having a romance with him?"

Di coloured prettily, caught out. No one knew about David except for Walter—and Pauline. But Di had not meant to tell Pauline—but Pauline had such a way of figuring things out. Her cap of black curls hid a mind that was quick and perceptive.

Di stammered a bit—she did not want to tell her secret but it seemed like she had no way round it—she couldn't _lie_ to Faith, after all. But what a shame! It had been so nice and cosy to have a secret with David—as though it were just she and David, really, in the world. She opened her mouth to speak—but Nan came to the rescue.

"Don't be ridiculous," she laughed, oblivious. "David is likely only coming to visit his sister Hazel. He and Di are friends, but Di hasn't any intention of falling in love. Have you?"

"No," was the answer from Di, who had considered herself head-over-heels for months now. "I haven't any intention of _that_."

The evening of the dance, Di stood in her slip and petticoat and arranged her curls. She heard the sound of a motor in the drive below and the cheerful footstep sounds of someone taking the steps two at a time. David! Di quivered with excitement as she dabbed rosewater at her wrists and throat. She must dress quickly and go down to him!

Polly's purple dress was hanging over the door, and Di made a move to take it down and step into it—and then stopped. She went back to her wardrobe and pulled out the yellow silk she had worn to the dance at the light. Oh, it was a summer dress and it was bare and she had worn it a thousand times—but she _would_ wear it tonight. It was her favourite dress, and not even Polly's darling gown could hold a candle to it. This yellow dress would always be dear to her, and as Di tugged it down over her curls she made a vow that she would keep it forever and ever, for it was the dress she had been wearing when she had first met _him_.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

What a gay party they made! They roared along the dark roads squashed into David's car—Faith, curls flying; Nan, sleek and smooth; Polly, dark and cheerful, and shy, blushing Alice. David's arm was around Di's shoulders and he began to sing as they motored along:

_Down among the sheltering palms  
Oh honey, wait for me…_

The rest joined in at the next line and they all sang together, in a glow of comradeship.

_  
Don't be forgetting we've got a date  
Out where the sun goes down about eight…_

But when they stepped into the bright dance hall, Di felt a little wave of sadness wash over her. How like ever things were and yet how terribly changed! There was Nan, dancing with a sophomore, and there was Faith, golden curls bobbing as she chatted amiably with a little group of girls. But Jem was not there. Di's heart turned over as she thought of her jolly, capable, red-haired boy brother. _Where was Jem tonight_?

Jerry, sold, stalwart, chum Jerry Meredith, was gone, too. And Walter was not there—Di was a little surprised that she did not see his face among the throng. Walter loved a party—at least, the _old_ Walter did. Where was he? Why had he not come? She felt a pique of annoyance at him—he _knew_ David was in town, and she had so wanted to introduce them properly.

At Redmond 'sociables' they didn't bother with anything so provincial as dance cards, so Di was free to waltz with David to her heart's content. How lovely it was to be held close in his arms! How thrilling to press her smooth cheek to his! She caught sight of Nan's shocked face as they whirled past, and did not care.

The band was playing 'You Made Me Love You,' and Di sighed with happiness. David sighed, too—but for different reasons. He was looking down at the little white face he held so dear to his heart, marveling over the feel of the slim white hand in his own—and thinking how unfair it should be that he should ever have to leave her. But the look of pain that flashed through his eyes lasted only a moment and was gone—the old good-natured sparkle was back.

"I've been thinking," said David to Di, "That I should like to go for a vacation, soon."

"Oh—where to?" laughed Di. "Somewhere 'down among the sheltering palms, perhaps?'"

David said, very casually, "I was thinking more about Europe."

Di said nothing—she only _looked_ up at him, suddenly frightened and more than a little wary.

"I hear it's nice this time of year," David went on. "Or that it will be nice early next year—which is when I plan on getting there."

Di stopped dancing and stood very still, keeping clasp of his hand. Her blood moved like ice-water in her veins—her heart gave a great thump and turned over. She looked up beseechingly into his face.

"For how long?" she asked, and her voice sounded very far-away and sad.

"For three years—or a little more," said David. "I've arranged my trip through the Royal Canadian Army. The service is slow and inefficient, but it's all expenses paid. Di—how could I ask for more?"

"How," she asked, in a voice that was low and trembling with hurt and anger and sadness at the thought of losing him, "How can you—joke—about it?"

With a little cry she tore herself away and fled to the verandah. It was cold and clear outside, and the wind dried her tears as fast as she could let them fall. It was snowing—the first snow of the season. Snow at an 'autumn social!' Di had always thrilled at the first snowfall before but she hated it just then. Why should the world be bright and beautiful when her heart was breaking?

David crept up behind her, laying his overcoat around her shoulders tenderly. Di turned and allowed herself to be taken up in his arms. Oh how, she thought, leaning her burning forehead against his chest, how could she lose him? And so soon after finding him?

David put his fingers under her chin and tilted her head up so that he could look into her eyes.

"I _have_ to go, Di." He was eager to explain himself. "It spoils my sleep at night, this war. Harry can't go—he's got a weak heart—and so it must be me who goes to claim our family's share of glory. Mother and Hazel wouldn't be able to hold up their heads around town if I stayed home. The Lewisons must be represented—and so I have to go."

There was a light tone in his voice. Joking again! Di pushed herself away.

"Think of how you might be hurt," she said in a voice that shook with rage. "Think of how you might be killed!"

"Think of Belgium," said David. "Think of Liege—and Namur—and think of Flanders, Di. Think of Lewis Hall—and Ingleside—and your Green Gables—and the old sweet ways of life that we must fight to protect."

She said nothing.

"Do you understand?"

She nodded, unwillingly. She understood his motives for going—but she did not understand the world, she did not understand a war that must separate families—and lovers—and perhaps forever.

"And you came all the way here—tonight—just to tell me that you must go?"

"And to ask you if you would be my wife—when I come back," he finished. Di's mouth fell open over her little white teeth! Her eyes grew wide and dark and her lips trembled—and her hands—as David fitted a little diamond ring upon her finger. It glittered in the low lamplight, and Di thought she had never seen anything half so lovely before.

"It's an old Lewison family treasure," he said, "And you shall be the _new_ Lewison family treasure—when the time comes."

The band was playing 'Down Among the Sheltering Palms,'—the song they had sung earlier in the evening—eons ago—when life had been simple and easy. Oh, but not half so sweet as this! The music came out onto the porch where they stood, hand-clasped. Inside a hundred voices joined in the song,

_  
How my love is burning, burning, burning,  
How my heart is yearning, yearning, yearning!  
To be down among the sheltering palms.  
Oh honey, wait for me! _

"Wait for me," repeated David, with a funny half-smile. And as their lips met, Di vowed she _would_. She would wait for him—she would wait for as long as she needed to.

_Author's Note: Thanks for all the reviews! To listen to "Down Among the Sheltering Palms" (written by Abe Oleman and James Brockman, 1914) visit http:// tinchicken. com/ songs /old/ downamongthe. htm. Only remember to delete those spaces!_


	8. Home Again

Di went home to Ingleside for the Christmas holidays with a heavy heart. She had never before been so reluctant to go home. She loved Ingleside—but there was only one month more before David went overseas—only one month more in which she could dance with him—only one month more to be held in his arms. And to have to spend it tucked away in the country! Oh, she could scream, with the unfairness of it!

She parted ways from the others and took the train to Charlottetown, for she had been invited to spend the day at Lewis Hall, to meet David's family—to meet them properly. They were all very kind to her—but a little surprised, Di thought, at the sudden turn of events. Mrs. Lewison said in one breath that she was so glad to meet David's _fiancée_—and in the next, expressed wonder that David should have a _fiancée_ at all! Hazel took Di into her confidences and said that she was _ever _so glad they were making a match of it—how lovely that David should have picked someone so nice and cosy when he might have had any number of smart, sophisticated city girls! Of course, Hazel Lewison had always been very silly and she meant well. Di smarted over it all the same.

But Mr. Lewison welcomed her quite gravely and goodnaturedly to the family, and said he hoped that her own family did not think she was tarnishing the name of Blythe by joining up with their rag-tag bunch. By the way—oughtn't the two families to meet sometime? Perhaps the Blythes could come up for the day and lunch with the Lewisons at their club.

Their club! Di's parents didn't belong to a club, and Ingleside wasn't half as grand as the marble-floored Lewis Hall. Di could hardly believe, as she walked around the sprawling, sunken garden, that she would be mistress of all this one day! It seemed a little too _big _and imposing for Diana Blythe but perhaps Diana Lewison would be able to manage it. Oh, Diana _Lewison_!

The only really nice part of the visit was meeting old Grandmother Lewison. She was a tiny, wizened old lady of about a hundred (Di thought), but large-voiced and imperiously silver-haired. There was no doubt that _she_ was the true mistress of Lewis Hall.

"I like the looks of you, girl," Grandmother said sharply. "_You_ seem like a sensible sort—and you won't let him laugh overmuch. That's young David's biggest vice—he laughs too much." She sniffed, as though she thought laughing a vice instead of a virtue.

Di was quick to correct her. "Oh, but you're mistaken," she said, with spirit. "David's _laughiness_ is what I like best about him. When I'm his wife, I'll mean to make him laugh more, not less."

Grandmother Richards broke into a wide, toothless smile. She reached up to her ears and removed her old, heavy, gold-and-emerald earrings.

"You take them," she said. "I like you and I want you to have them. Amelia's had her eye on them for years, but you shall have them, instead. I'm not over-fond fond of Amelia. She doesn't know her place—you will."

"Indeed, I don't believe I have a 'place!'" cried Di. "I think people should be able to go anywhere, everywhere." She tried to give the earrings back, but Grandmother Lewison smiled again.

"You'll do, girl," she said, tucking them firmly into Di's palm. "You'll do—nicely."

She cried a little when David drove her to the train station. He would leave for Valcartier on 2 January; she would not have a chance to see him again before he went. She looked for a long time into his face, as though memorizing it. She kissed him breathlessly and clung to him, feeling each second as it wore down, and brought them closer to the moment of parting.

Di had thought for a long while what she must say to him before they parted ways. She must find some way to tell him what he meant to her—to tell him that she loved him—that she would wait. She had rehearsed a dozen little speeches in her head, perfecting each until it was a thing of beauty. But as she looked into his dear, funny, mismatched eyes, those words would not come.

"Goodbye," was all she said, and it was the sweetest thing of all. The one word held all that she did not say—all that she meant to say, and all that she felt in her heart.

Di climbed onto the train and stared unseeingly out the window through eyes veiled with tears. She blinked and saw David's form on the platform, growing smaller, and the world became blurred around the edges again.

When she looked back, she could not see him. The train had rounded the curve. David was gone.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Ingleside was in poor spirits all around. The Falklands were in danger and the first air raid on Britain had begun. But, Di thought, sitting in the alcove by the stairs and watching the fat, downy flakes fall outside the window, they would have been in poor spirits anyway, war or no war.

Nan was worried over Jerry, and missing him badly. She looked so heart-broken, that Di began to wonder if Nan had any promises of her own to marvel over. But Nan did not want to talk of Jerry, or anything connected to him. Sometimes she gave a little cry and pressed her hand to her heart, as though it had beaten sharply against her chest—and Di knew that the very thought of him gave her sister pain.

Rilla was frazzled—her war-baby was croupy and cried often. Shirley was quiet as usual, Mother and dad were worried about Jem. Susan was determined that this Christmas season should go off as though no one of their own was missing from the festivity, and her forced gaiety had an opposite and depressing effect. Walter was silent and withdrawn. His eyes said that he thought it a weary old world. Someone had sent him an envelope containing a white feather, which he had pinned to his lapel and worn with great sarcasm during the train-ride home.

Di did not want to burden them with anything shocking, so she removed her diamond from her finger and began to wear it on a little chain around her neck. It could be tucked under her collar and out of sight, nestled against her heart. But she could not hide all of her feelings—she was in love, deeply in love, and loved in return. Oftentimes she found herself blushing or singing before she remembered that the others did not understand why she should behave in such a way. Susan even said, in a dark tone,

"Have you not forgotten, Di, that your brother is in Belgium at this moment? How any one can sing when Little Jem may be dead or dying is beyond _my_ understanding."

"Oh, no!" Di blanched with pain, to think that Susan thought her so heartless. Tears filled her eyes, and Mrs. Blythe reached across the table to pat her hand.

"I think we all should try to sing more," she said, with a warning look at Susan. "Jem has always loved to hear you sing, darling. Why shouldn't you continue to do so, even while he is away?"

But mother's words could not take away the sting of Susan's rebuke. Di went dully away, spirits depressed. Not even the thought of David could bear them up. Oh—what if Jem was, even at this instant, hurt—or—or—worse? Di tossed and turned all night, and awoke in the morning on Christmas Eve with eyes that were red and tired.

"What a merry lot of people we are!" she thought sarcastically, looking at the solemn faces of her family around the breakfast table.

They had all prepared for the holiday to be a little depressing, but the news came over the wire later that day of the Christmas true on the Western front. Ingleside let out a collective sigh of relief. For one day—only one day, but one day all the same—they could breathe easier. Jem—and Jerry—and all their boys were safe tonight. They could celebrate the Saviour's birth with clear hearts, unmuddled by worry or fear. Mrs. Blythe smiled, and even the doctor laughed. Di went to the piano and opened it, and sat down to play a round of carols.

"And not even Susan can fault me for singing in light of this news," she thought, as she raised her voice in 'Hark! The Herald Angels Sing.'

Christmas morning was bright and cleanly white, the new-fallen snow crisp and untrodden against the blue, cloudless sky. Di woke Walter at dawn and they watched the sun come up and light the edges of the world. It was an old Christmas tradition they had always had, from the time when they were very small, and for one splendid hour, as the first rays of morning played over the icy branches of the frozen maples, things were as they had always been between the two. Di slipped her hand into Walter's and whispered to him her secret, and Walter's eyes softened as he looked at her.

"May God bless you and your David always," he said. "Oh, Di, I'm so happy for you. Does mother know?"

"No-o-o," Di quavered. "I _will _tell her—of course—and Dad—in time. But if I told them now they might worry—and I don't want anything to spoil this day. Speaking of mother—let's go and give her her present!"

Their present was a lovely silken shawl of palest green. Di had picked it up in a shop with every intention of embroidering it, but, sadly, her talents in knitting did not extend to fancy-work. Alice had finally taken pity on her and done it herself—and after a few weeks the shawl was a bower of flowers—flowers of every kind, as vibrant and verdant as anything that ever grew in Eden's day.

"Alice Parker is really the perfect picture of womanhood," Walter had told Di upon seeing the finished product. "Sometimes—when I look at her face, I think that perhaps I _could_ go and fight—for a land that produces women as sweet as _she_ is must be protected at all costs."

Mrs. Blythe donned her shawl, exclaiming over its loveliness. "I really shouldn't accept it," she said ruefully. "It is far too fine. I've just raked poor Rilla over the coals for her extravagant new hat, and now it is _I _who should be reproached! What will Miss Cornelia say?"

Di was quick to assure her that she had bought the scarf in a secondhand store, "And besides, mother—what fun would the world be if we had to think about what dear Miss Cornelia would say before we did anything?"

"Indeed, Mrs. Dr, dear, little Di has it exactly right, sniffed Susan. Truthfully, Susan thought the scarf _was_ a bit too extravagant, but would have died before saying so, since it would have meant agreeing with Mrs. Marshall Elliott for once. She was, however, very pleased with the new flannel petticoat that was her own present from Di.

Di had had _fun_ buying these presents for everyone—she had pinched pennies for weeks to be able to afford a nice copy of _Pickwick _for Walter; the silk tie for dad; the leather book-bag for Shirley, who could use it at Queens; the beaded purse for Nan; and the gilt pocket mirror for Rilla. She had ever remembered Rilla's 'baby' and gotten it a set of painted blocks, which the child happily banged together to make a joyful noise. She had not forgotten Jem, either, and had worked feverishly for weeks on two pairs of woolen socks.

"The only socks I haven't really_ minded_ making," she told the others, as she knit and purl with all her vim and vigour.

And as the old proverb says, she that giveth shall be rewarded. Di exclaimed over her own trinkets. She had a book of pressed flowers, a length of cotton for a house-dress, a new set of pots and pans which would be _just_ the thing at 'Happy Family' and a great deal of spending money from father. _Too_ much! Oh, they were so good—they were all so good to her. Susan had supplied her with a season's worth of blackberry preserves.

"Because I know that they are your favourite," she said staunchly, and Di forgave Susan all her trespasses as she leant forward to kiss the wrinkled cheek.

Di would have been contented with far less, but she was to have even more—there was a slim brown-paper package under the tree with her name on it. It had come in the post a day earlier and the whole household had wondered curiously what it might be. But now they were all engrossed in their own presents, so Di was free to deal with it unnoticed. She lifted the lid of the box and exclaimed in wonder at the delicate, rose-gold watch nestled within. It was from David. She had not expected any thing from him, and her hand went to her throat, where her diamond hung on its golden chain, and her eyes filled with tears. What a beautiful watch!

On a little piece of note-paper he had written, 'To mark the hours until we are together again.'

Mrs. Blythe watched her daughter closely as she blushed and her eyes welled—and wondered if Di could really be serious about this Lewison boy? She had remarked in an off-hand way that they were 'corresponding,' and from her too-casual inflection Anne had supposed there was more to it than that. Oh, how much was she missing from her daughters' lives? It was only natural that time and distance should bring them a little apart from one another, but she had a pang of sudden loneliness as she realized that Di—her little Di!—had a secret from her.

"I won't press her about it," Anne thought. "She wants to have her secret and I shall let her keep it—for now—darlings, won't you come and sit by the fire and we'll read from this book of poems that Paul Irving has sent as a gift for us all?"

Di leant her head on her father's knee as they all took turns reading from Mr. Irving's book of verse—a sweet, enchanting little volume; each poem in it was a rose. Di reflected that it really had been a satisfactory Christmas, when all was said and done. She had been blessed in giving, and in receiving as well. She fingered her watch with a contented smile.

"But the best present of all," she thought, "Is that Walter seems happy—he seems to be _himself_ again."

She leaned back and listened to her brother's voice—what a wonderful voice he had! So expressive and melodius! The fire crackled chummily; baby Jims babbled in his sleep. The snow fell softly and silently onto the firs in the garden, the moon was bright and full. They were safe and sound within Ingleside, and for a little while there was no such thing as war in all the world.


	9. War of Words

It was a pleasant, balmy, March-as-a-lamb day and, it seemed, the entire population of Redmond College had taken to the quadrangle, which was, in this season, a shady, jewel-colored bit of green. Di had just finished an English paper and so she walked arm-in-arm with Pauline and Alice and pitied poor Nan, who had not finished hers because _she_ had gone to a party last night. Di liked a party as much as the next girl, but she would not have given up this splendid spring moment for a crowded, crush of bodies in a noisy room.

She had had a letter from David that morning from Valcartier and had a new capelet of green velvet and so all was well in the world of Diana. Especially because Walter seemed to have reverted a little back to his old self with the coming of the new season. Di smiled at him, walking on the other side of Alice. He was by far the handsomest man in the whole city—perhaps even the whole Island, now that David had gone—and she felt proud of her quiet, intelligent, good-looking brother.

"'Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag,'" Pauline, who dearly loved to sing, but was so _bad_ at it, warbled. "'And smile, smile, smile…'"

"How is your latest painting coming along?" Di asked Alice. There was to be a student show of work and Alice had been chosen to be exhibited. She was working on a portrait of Faith, showing her from her creamy shoulders up to her golden-brown curls.

"It's going well," Alice said. "Except that _one_ of my classmates called it 'derivative, and uninspired.' But I'm getting better at ignoring other people's critical remarks." She cast a grateful smile at Walter, who smiled back.

"I know who must have made that remark," said Pauline. "Why, it _has_ to be Delilah Green. I heard her telling someone in the cafeteria that she was dead jealous of the way the professor fawns over you, Alice. Her criticisms were the product of sour grapes and nothing more."

"Delilah Green?" asked Di, distastefully. "Why, I know her. We didn't like each other as children. Alice, Delilah is a Judas if there ever was one—you don't _want_ her to be your friend. The fact that she hates you speaks well of your character—Delilah is _that_ odious."

"I thought you must be friends with her, Di," said Pauline, who had moved from the Glen prior to the advent of Delilah Green. "She's been telling everyone who is anyone that you and she were 'bosom friends' as children—and that she was always an honored guest at Ingleside."

"Honored, my foot!" Di exclaimed. "Why, she never dared set foot in Ingleside after the first time—Susan would have boxed her ears. That little monkey! Why did she have to come here, out of all the colleges in Christendom?"

"She's been linked to that gorgeous sophomore, Keith Ransome. I don't know what he can see in a girl like Delilah. She's pretty, but its in a very ordinary way—and she's not pretty at all once she opens her mouth. I thought Keith was a fine, handsome fellow—too fine and handsome for the likes of Delilah."

"Keith Ransome would look far finer and handsomer if he were in khaki," said Di decidedly, with all the indignation of one who has sent those whom she loves to go off and be clad in the same. "I can't think of _one_ boy on this whole campus whose appearance wouldn't be improved thusly!"

There fell a deadly silence over the group. Diana went hot and cold and she did not know why she should feel that way. Then she heard a sharp intake of breath from Walter. She just managed to catch a glimpse of the hurt in his gray eyes before he tucked his chin to his chest, jammed his hands in his pockets. Without a word he turned and strode away.

"Walter!" Di cried, starting after him. Alice reached out and held her back.

"Let me go," she said, her eyes gently reproaching. "He will not want to take to you right now, Di." Alice's pink chiffon scarf fluttered as she ran toward the little copse of trees into which Walter had disappeared.

Di stood with Pauline and blinked back tears. "I didn't mean…" she began, and Pauline said, quickly: "I know, Di. It's a difficult time for everyone."

Di pressed her cold hands against her burning eyes. She could not stand the thought that Walter was hurt—and that she had caused it. Pauline linked arms with her and began to sing again, gaily, but her voice lacked true brightness.

_Smile, boys, that's the style.  
What's the use of worrying?  
It never was worth while, so  
Pack up your troubles in your old kit-bag,  
And smile, smile, smile._

Di wondered if any of them would ever have real cause to smile again.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

April brought rain and the news that Ypres, which had been taken so gallantly by the British in the autumn of 1914, was in danger of being taken. Then came word that the Germans had used a strange poison gas against the boys there on the Western Front. Di lived in agony for days. David was overseas but he was not there; but Jem and Jerry were, and she was tortured by the thought that perhaps they had died in agony—perhaps they were even now dead—and it might be weeks before they knew. For the first time she slackened in her studies, not caring if Nan should pull ahead of her.

But there was no danger of that. Nan was too worried about her sweetheart to do much other than fret. Finally a letter came from Ingleside bringing news that Jem had written—he was safe. The next day, Nan had one from Jerry. She read it on the porch at dusk with all of her friends around her and collapsed in a flood of tears.

"Thank God, thank God," she cried, clinging to Di. "Oh, dear Jerry—how much I love him—and how proud I am of him!"

Walter, who had been sitting on the porch rail looking out at the night bristled and jumped down the steps to disappear, white-faced. Di had her arms around Nan and her heart was glad over Jerry. All the same a prickly indignation fired in her breast. Why should they have to tread so softly around Walter when things were difficult for them, too? Di pulled her arms away and her anger propelled her forward to the spruce grove where Walter had disappeared.

She knew that she should not speak—she was too angry. But she could not help herself.

"Is that you, Di?" asked Walter. His back was to her and he was facing toward the sea. "Come and comfort me, sister-mine. I have need of your consoling presence tonight."

"I can't stay long," said Di icily. "For Nan has even greater need of my 'consoling presence,' I think. I must get back to her. But first I have come to tell you a few things."

Her voice shook with anger and Walter turned, surprised. He had not expected that Di—his own Di—should ever speak to him so. His eyes went stormy; he opened his mouth to speak.

"_Don't_, Walter!" Di cried. "I have had it up to _here_ with your self-pity! I can't stand to hear another word of it. You have been selfish, these past months, you—who are never selfish! Have you stopped to consider how Nan must feel? You did not ask her once about Jerry. He might have been dead, for all you cared—you didn't want to hear word one about this war! Not even about his safety—or Jem's. Father said he wrote you a letter last week to let you know that Jem was all right but you didn't pass the news on to the rest of us so we went on worrying! You probably haven't even opened it—Walter—do you care so little for your own brother?"

Walter tried to speak, but Di cut him off again.

"Mother is eaten up with worry over Jem and do you try to ease her burden by being hopeful and laughy—as hopeful and laughy as you can? No! You mope and she worries more. Father says it is taking a dreadful toll on her health. And when any of us dare say anything patriotic or praise any of our boys you stalk away furiously so that we are made to feel bad by our words, when we did not intend any hurt by them! Walter, this war is _not all about you_. All of us are suffering in our own ways. There will be plenty of time for us to worry over you when you go—if you go—do not make us do it now, while you are here!"

The words came out in a hot rush. Once they had been spoken Di could not take them back. Walter looked positively livid. He was deadly pale and when he spoke his voice was as cold as death.

"Rilla would never have said such things to me," he flung at Di.

"Then let _Rilla_ deal with your moods," Di cried, "For we have had enough of them!"

She picked up her skirt and hurried across the lawn back to the porch, where she wound her arms around her twin and buried her face in Nan's soft hair. The others were looking at her warily and Di knew her outburst must have been overheard. But no one chided her for it—and that is how she knew that perhaps she had been cruel—but the things she said had been true.

Walter did not return to the house that night and stayed away for many days. Di missed him, but she would not apologize.

"He needed to hear those things said," she whispered, as she stared up at the night sky. "And I needed to say them. But—oh, my God! He may never forgive me for saying such things. And what shall I do if I lose him forever?"

_Hush, hush,_ said the night wind as it whispered through the trees. It soothed her: _all will be well._ Di turned her thoughts from Walter and thought of David instead. David, dear David…where was David tonight? She looked up at the stars and was comforted that he was out there, somewhere, under the same sky.


	10. Chance Encounters

Kenneth Ford had gotten a lieutenant's commission

Kenneth Ford had gotten a lieutenant's commission. He wrote the news to Di in a letter, saying that he wanted to come and visit and 'show off' to her. Di smiled and sat down to write a reply, reminded of their long correspondence that had spanned many years. Among all the Ingleside children she had been his special chum; Jem had Jerry and Walter did not delight in the sorts of childish revels that Kenneth had loved. Snakes and snails and curly dog's tails—neither had Nan. Di alone had been his comrade, his partner in crime.

She wrote that of course he might come, as soon as he was able.

He came in early May. He was in khaki—so much khaki that he hardly looked like the old Kenneth from the golden years. Di launched herself into his arms, but all the same she was not sure if she were greeting a friend or a stranger. He was _so_ changed.

They went out to dinner with the rest of the 'Happy Family' but during the meal the news came that the _Lusitania_ had been sunk off the coast of Ireland, by a German torpedo. A newsboy told it to the busboy who told the maitre'd, who announced the news to the crowd in the restaurant with tears in his eyes.

"Now you see why I must go," Kenneth told Di, as he walked her back home. "War is one thing, but once the Kaiser starts zeroing in on poor civilians—it can't be borne."

Di nodded, and tucked her mittened hand in his. She had never had overmuch imagination—never as much as Nan—but the little she had tormented her. Those dark, pitiless waves—the cries going up—the cold and the mist and the final weariness that made it impossible to swim, to wave one's arms. Oh, Kenneth was right—it _couldn't_ be borne!

"Not a very auspicious start to our visit," Ken remarked as he walked her to the door. Di agreed that it was not. She was about to go in when Ken pulled her back to him again—and kissed her goodnight. He had never kissed her before except in friendship—and _this_ was not a friendly kiss, like all the others. Di found herself in a position that a thousand other girls would have envied—Ken Ford's arms—_and_ found that she did not like it. She extricated herself as quickly as she could and ran inside.

"Once, I could have talked of this with Walter," Di whispered, sometime in the sleepless night that followed. "But now…"

xxxxxxxxxx

She was still thinking about it—that _kiss—_as she walked through the campus toward the library the next day. Ken was spending the day with some of his father's people but had telephoned early in the morning to say he wanted to see her that night. _Could_ he want to apologize? Perhaps he had felt it, too—that _wrongness_—when their lips met. She shuddered, thinking of it.

"Why can't people let things _be_?"

She was lost in thought—so lost, that she did not see the man coming out of the heavy library doors as she was going in. Di crashed into him, head on. "Oh!" she gasped, coming back to herself. And then: "Oh, I am _so _sorry!"

Her victim was rubbing his chin—her head had bumped it—but when Di brushed the curls away from her face, he smiled.

"Why, I know that you must be Diana Blythe," he said.

Di was amazed that he should know her. He was an older gentleman—perhaps forty—with fading fair hair and eyes that were still amazingly keen and bright. He looked like the person who spent a lot of time smiling—all of his lines were smile lines—and an equal amount of time dreaming. There was something pensive about his mouth. But _who_ was he? Even as she was thinking it she realized.

"Mr. Irving!" she cried, rushing forward to shake his hand. "Forgive me—I haven't seen you in so long—not since I was a little, little girl! Oh, how _do_ you do?"

Paul Irving smiled as he shook her hand. He had last seen the 'Ingleside twins' four years ago, during a flying visit on his way to Avonlea. The girls had been fourteen then—Di must be eighteen, now. He wanted to laugh at the way she had called herself a 'little, _little_ girl.' But eighteen is oftentimes sensitive and always fancies herself more grownup than she is. So he only said,

"Yes—it has been some time. And how lovely you look, 'little' Di!"

It was an offhand remark but it made her ears burn in a curiously pleasant way. Mr. Irving sounded like he meant it. And something in his eyes was not laughy, though the rest of him was. Di could not know it, but Paul Irving was wondering what kind of fabulous creature _Nan_ Blythe must be—if she was considered 'prettier' than her slim, graceful sister.

"Thank you," Di said, remembering herself. "You look awfully well, too. What are you—doing—here, at Redmond? Mother didn't say anything about it. I can't believe she would not have written if she had known you would be here!"

"She doesn't," he said. "I thought about writing her—but my dear 'Teacher' must have other things on her mind."

"Yes," said Di, thinking of Jem—and Walter.

"To answer your question, I am teaching a short poetry course in the fall and I came in today to meet with the Dean. We could have talked about things over the telephone, but I was on the island with Mother Lavender—and I had a desire to see Redmond again. I was a student here, a million years ago, you know."

"Yes, I know," said Di, with no trace of a smile and Paul Irving suddenly wished he had not drawn her attention to his age. He was so much older than her—but he did not want her to think of him as old. He said,

"Di—would you like to go and get a coffee?"

"Oh, I'd love to," she said ruefully. "But I've a paper to present tomorrow—and—and later I am meeting a friend." Her cheeks coloured when she said it, and Paul knew that she meant a _male_ friend.

"Too bad," he said, regretfully. "But we'll meet again soon, I know."

He watched her wave goodbye and disappear into the library. She was like a young birch sapling in the wind. That night he began a series of sonnets addressed to 'Daphne'—a lovely, golden-green maiden with hair the crimson of maple leaves in October.

xxxxxxxxxx

Kenneth had said he would come to collect her at six o'clock on the nose. At exactly six o'clock the brass anchor knocker on the door rapped three neat, orderly times. Di heard it, in her room, and quailed. Faith Meredith, who was 'doing' her hair, looked at her strangely.

"I felt a chill," Di said, though really she was perspiring beneath her thick wool sweater and skirt.

Faith slid the last pin into place and stood back to survey Di's appearance. "Well, your _hair_ looks wonderful," she said. "But your outfit. Di Blythe, _why_ are you dressed so? It's unlike you?"

Di looked at herself in the mirror. She was wearing a long woolen skirt, in an ugly olive drab. On top she had put a sweater that Susan had knit her—a horrid thing in alternating strips of ecru and vivid magenta. It was ghastly when contrasted with her hair.

"I—I haven't anything clean," Di excused. "I must do laundry tomorrow. Well—goodbye!" And she grabbed her bag and ran out of the room before Faith could ask her anything more.

If Kenneth thought she looked odd he did not say. He took her hand almost before they had left the walk and Di felt a prickle of uncomfortableness. Why would he hold her hand? He never had, before. Not _this_ way—as though he owned her. She felt the flesh on the back of her neck crawl and knew that the other girls were watching from behind Alice's lace parlour curtains—and talking about her.

Ken took her to a Chinese restaurant in Summerside proper. Di enjoyed herself for the first time that night. She had never had Chinese food before and found it delightful. Little, cleverly folded dumplings, a murky soup that seemed to hold in its broth all the flavors of the world—and at the end of the meal, an innocuous-looking cooky that, when broken open, contained a 'fortune.'

"'You will attain your heart's desire,'" Di read, and crunched happily into her cooky. "Oh, I can't imagine a more perfect-sounding fortune. My heart's desire—there seem to be so many things my heat desires. I wonder which is the one I'll get?"

"Di," Ken said abruptly. "Don't you think we should get married?"

Di was so shocked that she dropped her 'fortune' into her tea. In a moment the paper was obliterated, the writing washed out. She scarcely noticed.

"_What_?" she said, to Kenneth Ford.

He was reaching across the table—he was covering her hand with his own. "I have loved you for a very long time," he said, in a voice that sounded very stilted. "It would do me a great honor if you agree to make me the happiest man in the world."

"Did you get that from a _book_?" Di gasped.

Ken would not be deterred. "I have already given you my heart," he intoned, very flatly. "I would like to give you everything you deserve and more."

Di found that she could not speak.

"Will you, Di?"

"NO!" she thundered, very loudly, so loudly that everyone else turned to look. "No," Di said, again, quieter this time. "I've never heard anything so ridiculous. Of _course _I won't marry you, Kenneth! Don't _speak_ to me of such a thing again!"

He took his hand away. He was beginning to look a little hurt. "Why, Di? Why won't you?"

"Suppose you start by telling me why you think we _should_."

"Well," Kenneth said. "We're great chums, always have been. I _like_ you, Di."

"And I like you, too—love you—but _not_ like _that_."

"I'm going away," Ken said, suddenly looking very lost. "I ship over in July. I—I thought—well, I may not come back. I—I'd like to know—what it is, to be married. And I think it would make mother happy. She is so worried that I will never settle down. And I—I think—I _do _love you, Di."

Di softened a bit. "You don't love _me_," she said. "Oh, yes, you do—like I love you—but it isn't the right way, Ken. We wouldn't make each other happy. One day you will meet a girl and you will know right away that you love her. It won't be something you have to think about. You just _will_. I know, because…" she trailed off, thinking of David.

"Because you love someone else," he finished, for her.

Di said nothing, but her silence was telling.

"I wish you would, Di," Kenneth tried again. "I hate feeling as though things are so unsettled. I'd like to settle this before I go."

Di smiled up at him. "I'm sorry," she said. "But it can't be."

The walk home was very silent. Ken would not hold her hand and Di found herself wishing that he would. But he did not reach for her. He left her at the gate with a curt "Goodnight," and began to walk away. Oh, it could not be like this! He _was_ going—and he was right when he said that—that—that they had always been such good friends. She could not say goodbye to him like _this_.

"Ken!" she called, and she ran after him. He stopped, turned. She threw herself into his arms.

"I do love you very much," she said. "And I hope—and pray—and _know_—you will come back."

He lowered his lips to hers again but this time it was not a romantic kiss—just a friendly one—full of all the good times that had ever been between them, and all that would be.

"Goodbye," said Di. "And good luck, Kenneth. You _won't_ need it—but good luck, all the same."

At the corner he turned and looked back. "Di," he called. "I want to ask you…"

"Yes?"

"Can you—not—tell anyone—how foolish I've been? I know it is a lot to ask—but if you could keep it to yourself—not tell Nan—or Walter—or—or Rilla?"

She smiled. "I won't," she promised. "Goodbye!"

She watched him until he was almost out of sight, and then she went in, remembering Susan's admonishment of years ago: it was bad luck to watch a parting friend go away from you.

That night, in bed, Nan asked her if she had had a good time with Ken.

"_Per_fectly lovely," Di answered, and butter wouldn't have melted in her mouth.


	11. Home Again, Home Again

And just like that, their first year at Redmond was over, and they were going home to Ingleside

And just like that, their first year at Redmond was over, and they were going home to Ingleside. Di said goodbye to Alice and Pauline with real sorrow. Faith she would see—often—but Pauline was going to stay all summer with cousins in Halifax and the Parkers had moved from Lowbridge to Maywood many years before.

"It seems so long until we meet again," she mourned to them. "How I'll miss you—and our dear little house! I hope the family that is subletting it for the warm months will be good to it—and love it—but I know they can't love it as much as we do."

She couldn't help turning to look as she went away with it, their dear little abode. She felt a shiver and wondered how many things would change before she saw it again.

"I _won't_ think like that," she told Nan. Nan squeezed her hand comfortingly, but Di wished it were Walter beside her, instead. Only Walter had finished his exams early, had come home last week. She _almost_ hadn't missed him, and had been a little relieved, even, when he had gone.

"Horrible, disloyal sister," thought Di of herself, as the rocking of the train lulled her to sleep.

The first thing that the twins say when they reached home was Susan Baker, standing in the yard, raising the flag. Di dropped her bags and ran to help her.

"Italy has declared war on Austria-Hungary," said Susan by way of greeting. "And it is about time, too, I think. I told Woodrow Wilson the other day that I thought it likely the Italians would dither longer than the Yankees, but they have proved me wrong in the end. The Italians are not a race known for their get-up-and-go, but now they are in the thick of things, and the United States is not."

"And what did ol' Woodrow have to say to _that_?" Nan teased.

Di spent a long moment drinking in the sight of her lovely home. How beautiful it was, with the honeysuckle just beginning to come out around the verandah. Someone had planted little, starry-faced pansies in the window-boxes. The bells on the Tree Lovers came up from Rainbow Valley on the wind. Di had been away from school before—when she had gone to Queens—when she had been at the Mowbray Narrows school—but never before had she _felt_ the absence as she had this year. But then, there had never been a _war_ before.

Shirley came and shook her hand in a funny, almost manly way. He had shot up during the last year at Queens and he was very tall now—taller than Di. "Can this be my little boy brother?" she marveled, looking at him. "You must be setting the girls' hearts aflame, Shirley, dear."

He blushed just enough to let her know he was the same Shirley in temperament, if not appearance.

"Oh, hello," Rilla cried, bustling in and then out, her arms full of a spangled material. Di smiled after her. Rilla had written in a hurried, slapdash letter of the concert that the 'Junior Reds' were getting up. There had apparently been much drama and furor surrounding the whole thing.

"It goes off tonight," said a deep voice at Di's shoulder, "And I'll be gladder than glad when it is all over and when can finally _breathe_ again."

Di turned and threw herself into her father's arms. Oh, it felt so _good_ to have Dad hug her! Nothing could be so truly terrible if Dad was near. The thing she had missed most were the hugs.

But as she pulled away, she noticed that his face was not as jolly as it should have been.

"What is wrong?" wondered Di, urgently.

But Dad turned away. He said, "Go and greet your mother—she's been waiting for you all day."

"But Dad…"

"Go on, now."

Di went in and kissed her mother hello, bounced a plump, ringletty Jims on her knee, and then went up to her room to unpack a dress for the concert tonight. It was not until much later that she noticed that Walter was not around. She had not stopped to consider where he might be, and the fact that she had not missed him would cause her many a sleepless night, later.

xxxxxxxxxx

David had written her a letter to coincide with her homecoming. It was such a thoughtful, Davidy thing to do. Di read it in Rainbow Valley and spent a long time thrilling over each word. She had unpacked her green dress to wear to little Rilla's concert tonight, but now that she had had such lovely sentiments from David, she decided to wear the yellow dress he had loved, instead. It was getting to be _just_ a little shabby, that dress, but Di renewed her old vow that she should never give it up. And with Nan's new lace collar you couldn't even see the little gap in the neckline where one of the seams had pulled loose.

She sang as she arranged her hair. How lovely she looked! No—it wasn't vanity to say—because Di did not care a whit about looking lovely for herself. It was for David. She wanted to look lovely for him. She did her hair in a low knot at the nape of her neck and was trying to fasten a string of green glass beats at her throat when she felt a touch at the clasp.

"You are all green and goldy," Walter said. He quoted, "'Nature's first green is gold—her hardest hue to hold.'"

"'Her early leaf's a flower, but only so an hour,'" Di replied. "Oh, Walter—it is good to see you." And in that moment she missed him—all of the missing of him she had not done in the past week. It was _almost_ as though things were _right_ between them again. He was even smiling—Walter! Smiling! But what had he been doing to his poor hair? It was shorn irregularly close to his scalp, white patches of sun-hidden skin showing through. Di began to laugh and to tell him he should not go back to Barber Douglas when all at once she realized and her laugh turned into a sob. She fit the knuckles of her hand against her lips and tried to choke it back but she could not. Another one came—another. And then she was weeping, heartstruck.

"Oh no – no – no! Walter, you _can't_, you _mustn't_ …."

"Yes, I am—and yes, I must. Don't you see I _must_ go, Di? Dear, I know that we have grown apart these past few months. And I know that you have seen our friends and comrades and our brother go – and that you have wondered, deep inside somewhere, why I wasn't going, too."

"No," Di sobbed. "I never – never – thought that – I never was ashamed – to have you here with us. I only hoped – that you would stay forever – and I knew you would go. I was almost afraid to look at you, for fear I would see in your face – what I do – now."

"But aren't you a _little_ proud of me right now, Di?"

He held her and she wept into his shoulder.

"I have always, _always_ been proud of you," she said, in a little fierce voice, "Always, Walter."

They stayed together for a very long time. Finally Walter brushed his hands across her cheeks, collecting tears, and used the tips of his fingers to quirk her lips into a smile.

"Come on, Di," he said, "Or we'll be late for Rilla's concert."

"Oh—I can't go. Not after—this."

"You can. And you must keep a brave face. Mother and father know—of course—I think Shirley suspects something—and I'll tell Nan on the walk over. But Rilla doesn't know yet. We thought it would be best to tell her—well, _after_."

"I'll do my best," Di said, in the steadiest voice she could manage. Inside she felt rubbed raw. Walter was going, would leave them—and maybe would be hurt—or killed. She could not bear even to think about it. She wouldn't. She would push it into some dark, numbed place where it could not hurt her.

Di was in a misery throughout the concert. Walter was on her one side, Shirley on the other, his brown paw squeezing hers. So he did know. Nan had silvery tear tracks on her face. Her fingers went often to the little locket at her throat that Jerry had given her. Father looked—old. But Mother—Mother was trying her best to be radiant but not quite managing.

Up on stage, Rilla lisped. Oh, she would be in agonies over it—but it only reminded Di of the little roly-poly baby of the old days. Her voice was curiously dull. Her eyes sought and found the face of her black-haired brother. Di looked at Walter sharply and wondered if Rilla was thinking, too, what Di was thinking: What would they do without Walter? What would they do—if—if—

She was awash in a sudden flood of memories. The first time Walter had brought her one of his poems. She could remember the hot, proud feeling that had swelled in her breast upon reading it. The both of them rolling dough in the Green Gables kitchen, listening to Aunt Marilla and Mrs. Rachel Lynde bicker good-naturedly. The first time Di had had a secret from Nan—it had been Walter's secret, of course. Countless days spent in the languor of Rainbow Valley. Then, suddenly, she saw other things: Walter's lovely eyes, milky-white and blind. His long, thin body tossed atop a heap, like so much rubbish. The empty spaces in her life where Walter might have been—but wasn't. She clapped her hand to her mouth. She could not breathe.

Rilla had finished her piece and there was a burst of thunderous applause. Walter stood and gave her an ovation. His face was shining with the light of a thousand far-off stars.


	12. The Second Summer

Di found that she could not write to David of Walter's going

Di found that she could not write to David of Walter's going. David, after all, had gone—gone early—might not be able to understand what had kept Walter from going. He might be offended that she was making such a fuss over Walter when she had not made it over _him_. But, though she loved David, Walter was—Walter. He was her twin of the soul, just as Nan was her twin of body.

Or he had been. It was hard to say, now, exactly how things stood.

She wrote to Alice instead. Alice would understand.

"Rilla took it awfully badly," she wrote, her pen scratching the page. "It was awful, to see her face after she came up from Rainbow Valley _that night_. Rilla had left the house a girl, but now she seemed to have grown up in the space of only a few hours. I was waiting for her on the verandah. She sidestepped me. At the door she turned back and she said, in a blank little voice, 'He told—you—first.' And then she went in. I was half awash with guilt, and half angry. What did it matter, such a petty thing, at a time like this?

"But in the morning she was quite composed. After breakfast she came to me and apologized, and said what I had been feeling. We decided it didn't matter, that there would be no rivalry between us. It would be silly for us to quarrel over who loves Walter more. He needs all the love that he can get."

She chewed her pen and thought of the secret that Nan had told her the night before. Later—after the concert—when they had been nestled together in the window seat, looking out at the moonlit world, Nan had told her twin, in a queer little voice, that she and Jerry were engaged. Not engaged to _be_ engaged—but really, truly promised to one another.

"He asked me in his last letter," she confessed. "It wasn't very romantic. He just wrote that he wanted it—and did I want it, too? Of course he already knows I do. I—planned—to tell mother about it—last night, but now with Walter going…I don't think it would be right."

Di felt a curious feeling—as though Nan were going away from her, too. Why should she feel this way? She, Diana Blythe, was the betrothed of David Lewison. Now she and Nan were equals—but all the same, Di could not help feeling that a gulf had suddenly widened between them—had been widening between them for some time.

Nan seemed to feel it, too. She said, suddenly, "Di, isn't there _anything_ you want to tell me?"

"No," said Di, very quickly. Oh, she _did_ want to tell! But something—some little superstition—some secret fear—would not let her.

Nan gave her a long, hard look and got up, and went to her bed. Di heard her dainty snores a little while later. She had never been so far from sleep herself. Would she not tell Nan because—because deep down she did not think her marriage to David would ever take place?

"I won't think it," she murmured. "I won't—I _won't_. Of course it will, and we will be so happy together."

xxxxxxxxx

The summer—the second summer of the war—was not a happy one. It was bittersweet. Walter was home—and he was so like his old self again!—but then he was gone. After he had left everything in life seemed flat and desperate. Jem was not there to lead them in their old merry adventures. Nan was 'pining'—Susan's word—for Jerry. She had been very upset when their results from spring examinations had come. Di had beaten her by one-tenth of a point.

"It's easy for you," Nan said, in a temper. "You don't have a _fiancé_ overseas."

Di shook with anger. Oh, didn't she? She thought of David—and for the first time she could not fix him in her mind. It frightened her for days.

Baby Jims was hot and colicky. Rilla was subject to little freezing rages and intermittent bouts of determined sunshine. Di never felt she was doing enough. She should be knitting socks instead of lounging in Rainbow Valley—she should be writing to 'the boys'—she should be helping mother. But there was a strange lethargy in the very marrow of her bones. She could not make herself do anything.

"I am worried about Shirley," she confessed to Faith one day. "He seems to feel things terribly keenly—but never speaks of them. The other day he dropped a glass in the parlour and father scolded him. He didn't mean to scold him so roundly—but father is not himself lately. Shirley's little brown face flamed crimson and then deadly white—he cleaned up every bit of glass—and then took himself off somewhere. I could not find him the rest of the day. I don't know what to do for him."

"I know what you mean," Faith sympathized, pulling her curls up off the back of her neck. "It is the same way with Una. She is so closed off from the rest of us. I know there are things going on behind those placid blue eyes—but she never reveals anything. I wish I could crack her like and egg, and see what is really within. I wish she _trusted_ me."

"She and Shirley _are_ so alike," Di mused. "Wouldn't it be wonderful if they grew up—and fell in love? Then it would be you and Jem—Nan and Jerry—and Shirley and Una."

"Positively incestuous, so much intermarrying," Faith said. "Too much for one family, I think. But it is fun to match-make, isn't it? I don't think I'd be very good at it. I haven't the subtlety. Rilla's little friend Miranda Pryor is _dead_ in love with Joe Milgrave, and he with her. It is so obvious. I want to take each of them by the hand and lead them to one another and say, 'You _know_ you love her, _you_ know you love him,' let's get all the other nonsense over with and just admit it."

"Faith," said Di suddenly. "I am engaged to David Lewison. I have been engaged to him for almost eight months."

It was the first time she had told anybody but Walter and she was shaking a little with the effort of it. What would Faith say? She waited, hardly daring to breathe.

Faith said, "Why, Di, I know. I've known for ages."

"You—do?"

"Yes—I _wasn't_ snooping—but you left a letter out, on the table. My hands had picked it up and my eyes were reading it before I even realized what I was doing. Well, I'd been wondering when you would tell me. Why _didn't_ you tell me—or any of us, for that matter?"

"I don't know," Di ruminated. "I suppose it was so nice—to have a _secret_. And sometimes I think—that—that he will never come home. Oh! I shouldn't think it. But it feels good to _say _it. If he didn't come home, everyone would fuss over me. And—I don't think I could bear losing him—and the fuss, too."

Faith said, "Everyone thinks that way. I think that way about Jem, sometimes."

"Do you?"

"Yes. It would be stupid not to worry. But I have—faith." She laughed, at her pun, and Di laughed, too. "I tell myself it won't happen. God couldn't let it—not to Jem."

Di was glad when it was August. Then she could throw herself into packing up her trunk. She had a couple of new dresses—she had not wanted them, but mother insisted. With a heavy heart, Di left behind her old yellow gown that she had worn when she had danced with David. It was too large for her now—it was shabby. But when she held it to her face, it smelt of summer nights, of tender new love, of carefree times. Of David's face, which she could see quite clearly now. Oh, if only one could run away from memories, sometimes!


	13. The Fall Term Begins

It was nice to be back at One Happy Family Way

It was nice to be back at One Happy Family Way. The house seemed _glad_ to see them again. The summer tenants had taken very good care of it—someone had whitewashed the fence and planted a row of asters in the front garden. It hurt Di a little to see those asters—Walter had always loved 'farewell summers.' It was funny how everything reminded her of Walter.

Pauline and Alice were already there when the Glen St. Mary girls arrived. Alice was as pretty and golden as ever, but _Pauline had bobbed her hair_. Bobbing was almost unheard of in these times, and they were all shocked for the first few days, until they got used to the sight of it. Pauline took to wearing a charming beret on top of her shining cap of curls.

The first night, they made supper and sat and talked about all the things that had happened while they were away from one another. "It's funny," Faith remarked. "I can't tell you what I did or when, but I _can _tell you the exact date Warsaw fell—what I was wearing when I heard the Russians had recaptured Premysl—Kitchener's plan for each of the advances at Gallipoli and why they fell through. It seems as though it will be very difficult to keep my mind on my studies. I feel like I'm learning two things: history _and_ war. But then they go hand in hand, oftentimes. What would history be without wars? Sometimes when I feel it is all _too much_ I tell myself that we relatively few people on the planet at this time are _experiencing_ history—nothing that has ever occurred in history before. but," she concluded, her eyes growing worried, "I wish we weren't experiencing it _so_ much."

Faith was busy, too, with Red Cross work. She had gotten permission from the dean of students to start a Redmond College chapter. Di joined her every other day at meetings—she had been elected secretary. The kitchen at Happy Family was full of the smells of things she was baking for care packages—the parlour was littered with bolts of cotton for sheets—she kept a basket of yarn by the bed to knit the dreaded socks.

Nan had joined the Reds only a few times. After the third meeting, she told Di she couldn't come back. "Every bandage I roll, I think it could be used for—him," she admitted. "It feels like I am tempting fate somehow."

Di understood—but all the same she did not understand. It soothed her to know that if David was hurt—but please God, he wouldn't be—her ministrations would reach him, all the way around the world. Hazel Lewison felt the same way. When she visited Di she looked strangely subdued—not anything like the flashy Hazel she had been. Her dress was very plain and she wore no ornaments.

"I've given all my jewelry for the war effort," she confessed over tea. "Mother was astonished—Mother didn't understand. But Dad did, I think—and Grandmother. I want to do all I can to help David and—and—oh, Di, mayn't I tell you a secret?"

"You may," Di laughed.

Hazel was engaged. Little Hazel, in her last year at Queens, just exactly one year older than little Rilla. Di remembered how she had been at that age—flighty, silly, full of fun. Hazel had a perpetual frown of worry burned between her brows. She thought of Rilla, working her pretty hands to the bone in the Junior Reds, running round after Jims. What had happened to the young people of today? How would they ever survive this? How would any of them?

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Paul Irving sent her a note—a gorgeous little thing written on gold and blue paper, folded into the shape of a crane. Di read it with pleasure and wrote back, on rather ordinary blue writing paper. She would love to meet him for the long-promised cup of coffee. Paul wrote back that he remembered his college days quite vividly—would she rather go for supper instead? Somewhere nice, and rather fancy? The Kingsport hotel—where he was staying—had a wonderful spread. Of course Nan could come along, too. He would expect them both.

Nan could not come. She was determined to 'ace' her latest literature paper and had formulated a theory about Dickens's _Great Expectations_ that she guarded as though it were a top-secret military document. Nan had not quite gotten over Di's beating her out in the previous year. _This_ year, she would top her.

And she was a little jealous that Mr. Irving was writing so familiarly to Di. In Nan's secret heart, she would have preferred to be the chief correspondent of a Famous Poet. She might have even believed that she _deserved_ to be—Di had never been one for romantic flights of fancy. And Nan was not used to playing second to her twin.

Di took Faith along instead. It was just beginning to be cold at night, and so the girls shielded their fine evening dresses with heavy coats and mufflers. "It is a pity, to have to cover up my new dress," Di sighed, looking at her blue crepe. "_And_ to have to wear long underwear underneath. But I promised Susan I would."

"I'm almost afraid to wear this dress," Faith said, of her pretty rose-and-gold confection. "I know I shan't have another new one until the war is over—and who knows how long that may be? I know that I'll upset a pot of tea over it—or spill mustard on the skirt—or get it caught in the door, and rip it."

They walked arm and arm to the streetcar, talking of things. Di thought was a strange thing it was to have a friend like Faith. In some ways, Di felt closer to her than she did to Nan. She had never quite had a friend—a bosom friend—before in her life. She thought back to Pauline's moving away, to Delilah Green's treachery, to Jenny Penny and her lies. Faith seemed to know what she was thinking and leaned forward to kiss her cheek. Di squeezed her hand.

Mr. Irving greeted them both with enthusiasm. "I'm going to be the envy of every man in the room tonight," he praised them. "That man—over at the table in the corner, see?—he is the richest man in Canada and look how he is fuming under his bald pate. Because all the money in the world can't buy dinner companions as pretty—and sweet—and wholesome as you girls."

"Well, I'm hooked," Faith proclaimed, laughing. "I'm going to like you awfully, Mr. Irving, from here on out."

"Good," said Mr. Irving. "Because I've quite made up my mind to like you awfully, too."

He wanted to know how their studies were going. Di was not in any of his classes this year, but perhaps she would be next year. He liked teaching, and decided he would stay on, if 'Mother' Lavender did not miss him too much. "But Charlotta the Fifth is taking good care of her, so I think I might stay." He laughed over Di and Nan's rivalry, which took some of the sting out of it.

He was very interested in Faith's history degree. "Everyone should study history," he opined. "And history and literature go more hand in hand than people think. What could be more fascinating to see themes of love—and loss—and despair—and hope—played out across the ages? _Is_ there a more tragic figure than Napoleon, on his way to Elba? Or a more romantic heroine than Jeanne d'Arc, leading her troops into battle? Was King Henry ever haunted by the wraiths of his poor, dead wives? And did Bloody Mary cry into her pillow over her misdeeds?"

Di's 'scant' imagination was stirred and she _saw_ all of these things: a florid king pacing the floor, a high-ruffed queen sobbing into her pillow, lovely, brave Joan with the flames flickering in her tortured eyes.

Paul Irving _made_ them order dessert, and seemed truly sorry to see him go. "You must come and visit me whenever you're able," he told them. "Even 'famous' poets get lonely—they couldn't write poems if they weren't—but too much loneliness is not a good thing."

"I wonder why he never married," Faith mused, as they walked home. "He is so handsome, for an older man."

"Is he?" said Di, innocently. "I hadn't noticed."

"Yes—with that silvery hair and those fine bones under his skin. And those large, dreamy eyes. Did you see how Mrs. Moneybags across the way was ogling him, playing with her feather boa to try to draw his attention? And he is so nice, and kind. He would have made someone a good wife, and I'm sure he would have been an excellent father."

"He's not dead _yet_." Di was a little peevish, though she knew not why. "Perhaps he still may marry. There is time for all those things."

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In the evenings, when they were done with their studies, the girls took turns reading their letters out loud while they did Red Cross work. Faith had funny notes from Jem; Nan had all sorts of philosophical missives from Jerry. Pauline had made friends with a rich spinster in Halifax and 'Miss Purdy's' cutting wit was much appreciated around the fire. She had an acerbic tongue and couldn't see the good in anybody.

"She would be a horrid person to be _related_ to," Faith laughed. "But as a correspondent she is perfect. She appeals to my baser feelings."

Di had letters from Susan that were not meant to be funny but _were_, all the same. "Have you not read Woodrow Wilson's latest letter, Di, dear? I have, and did not fail to notice that he misspelled 'defence' three times. Or perhaps it is the Yankee way. He also used 'tremendous' on four separate occasions. Perhaps in the States it is the way of things, but in Canada, at least, good vocabulary will never be rationed. Little Kitchener has cut a new tooth and today he has tried it out on my hand. Little Rilla has had to bring out her new velvet hat again. I do not deny it becomes her, but I think it is high time she had another. Though I would never say so to Mrs. Dr, dear. I know my place and am not likely to forget it any time soon.

"Miss Oliver _almost_ said a bad word today, but I was able to prevent it. I hope that you and Nan do not use bad words, Di, dear. It would be so unbecoming, not to mention a sin."

Rilla's note was full of hasty misspellings, crossings-out, and the drama of the Junior Red Cross. She was reading, in her spare time, a biography of Therese of Liseux, which worried Susan to no end, since the said Therese had been a Roman Catholic. Rilla vowed that she was going to take a 'vow of poverty' just like poor Therese. It was _so_ romantic. She had taken to wearing plain dresses and had told mother to take all of her nice ones for the rag bag.

"I give her one day before she's gone and rooted them out," Nan said wisely.

There was a terse, yet goodnatured, letter from Shirley. He had joined the football team. He was going to his first dance with a group of fellows, but some of them were bringing 'dates.' Shirley was thinking about asking Persis Ford, who was in her first year at Godley's Ladies Academy, to come along. But he did not know how to ask her. _Would_ Di write back with a suggestion of how he should word things? If she did, he would be so grateful.

"How about 'Persis, would you like to come to the winter social with me?'" suggested Pauline, and they all laughed.

"What is that other letter?" Nan asked. "The one in your hand?"

"Oh, it is just a circular from the debating society," Di said, hiding it quickly in her pocket. She stole a glance at Faith, who nodded understandably. _She_ knew that it was from David.


	14. An Unmerry Christmas

In October Faith Meredith had a letter from her brother Carl

In October Faith Meredith had a letter from her brother Carl. He had joined up, and he was going. Di found Faith in her room, after supper. She was weeping quite openly into a hanky, which was unlike Faith, who tried to keep a brave face at all times.

"Little Carl—Little Carl going," she sobbed. "Oh, Di, I can't bear it. _Think_ of how empty and lonely the manse will be with both our big boys gone. How will they bear it? I hated to have Jerry go, even though I was proud he wanted to, because Jerry is older. But Carl—Carl was just a baby when our mother died. Di—Di—Rosemary is wonderful, but I miss my _mother_. I wish she were here. I _need_ her. Oh, Carl going—my boy-brother Carl—to do a man's job. Next they will be wanting baby Bruce!"

Di comforted her as best she could, trying to imagine how she would feel if it were Shirley. But Shirley was so young. The war would be over before Shirley's turn came.

The approaching winter seemed that it would be longer and colder than ever. Di spent a long time battening the hatches—stoking the fire—draping gay colored afghans over things. But she could not get rid of the little chill deep in the marrow of her bones.

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"Christmas is coming—the goose is getting fat," Nan sang, in the first week of December. "I wonder if we _will_ have goose for Christmas this year? Everything is so heavily rationed. What _will_ Susan do?"

Di could not worry about Susan's kitchen. The Serbian Army had collapsed, the Ottomans were laying siege to Kut, and once again the Germans were threatening to cross the Isonzo into Italy. Things seemed—bleak.

And worst of all, Walter would not be home, this year, for Christmas. Di longed for him. His wrote in his letters that he missed her, too—but did he? Likely he missed Rilla, sweet little Rilla who never quarreled with him, more. Di felt very glum indeed when she had that particular thought, despite what she and Rilla had promised in the summer: never to vie for Walter's affections.

"At least I have examinations to distract me," she murmured.

But the weeks of worry and Red Cross work had taken their toll. Di did poorly in her half-term results. Nan beat her by more than a point.

"What is the use?" Di wondered. "All I'll do is get married and have lots of babies. It's stupid to educate women, it's a waste."

"You don't mean that," Alice Parker said gently. "You are overwrought. Besides, lots of men like to have educated wives."

Di laughed—peal after peal—over that, though good, shy little Alice never got the joke.

Mrs. Blythe was worried when Di stepped off the train. She looked so pale and thin. She was even thinner than Nan, and Di had always tended a little toward plumpness. Anne did not like the scarecrow look to her daughter. She sought Di out that first night back at Ingleside and found her sitting in the dark parlour, staring at the fire.

"Di," she said, "Won't you tell me what is wrong, dearest?"

"Nothing—and everything," Di said morosely.

"Why don't you tell me _one_ thing?"

"It isn't _one_ particular thing," said Di waspishly. "It's a whole lot of little things. It's Walter—and Jem—being gone. It's Jims crying all night, every night. It's Nan beating me in exams. I feel beastly saying it. It shouldn't matter, with everything else going on, but it does, to me. It's Rilla growing up and—" _Closer to you_, Di wanted to say, but something held her back. Still she could not deny that Rilla seemed closer to Mother than Di ever had. "Everything is changing," she said, simply, shrugging her shoulders up and down.

"What is changing, darling?"

"The boys being away," Di sighed. "This dreadful war. Nan and I aren't as close as we once were She belongs to Jerry now. As Faith Meredith belongs to Jem. Alice and Pauline haven't anybody they love at the front and so I feel that they can't really understand what it's like. And—" Di broke off again. She had been about to say that even her letters from David seemed different, now. More hurried, less affectionate. But it was nothing she could really put her finger on, and besides—Mother didn't _know_ about David.

Anne settled next to her girl and put her arm around her shoulders. "At times like these," she said, chummily, "It sometimes helps to think about what _isn't_ changing—all of the beautiful, lovely things we have. Let's find them—_name_ them, Di. I'll start: that driftwood fire, with all the colours of the shore in summer in it."

"Oh, Mother," Di snapped. "Let me _be_. Everyone doesn't always _have_ to be in a good mood!"

Anne stood—a _little_ stiffly, it must be admitted. And said—a _trifle_ coldly (it must also be admitted!), "I don't think that you'll find your attitude very productive, Diana."

It was not a successful Christmas. Shirley was nursing a football injury. Nan's eyes were ghastly red. Jims was peevish with a bout of croup, and Rilla was peevish trying to tend him. Last year, with _one_ empty chair, it had been hard enough to bear. This year there were two. David had not written in over three weeks.

"And I quarreled with Mother!" thought Di, miserably.


	15. Renewed Correspondence

Di received a letter from David in the first week of January, when the spring term had reconvened

Di received a letter from David in the first week of January, when the spring term had reconvened. When she saw it her heart started to beat crazily in her chest. What if—? Could he—?

For the first time she was not sure what he would say in it. She suddenly found herself not wanting to know.

But he could not rest until she had read it. The letter called to her, beckoned to her. She shoved her copy of _Silas Marner_ aside and picked it up. If she had gotten it at home she would have gone down to Rainbow Valley to read it. There was no Rainbow Valley hear in Kingsport. The closest she could find was the shore to the back of Happy Family—a frozen, cold, January shore, but beautiful nonetheless.

She unwrapped her letter with trembling hands. For one moment Di felt utterly sure that David was going to write that he did not love her—he had fallen out of love with her—that he had never _really_ loved her to begin with.

"I won't be afraid," she told herself. "If Jem and Walter can face the Huns—if Alice can face her stage fright—if Rilla can face her war-baby…I _won't_ quake in my boots!"

_Dearest, darlingest Di_, David had written, and her heart began beating again—still a little quickly, but quickly now because of what he'd written next. _Can you know how much I love you—how I am missing you—and how I count the days until the time when this war is over and I can come back to you—for good?_

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_16 January 1916 _

_Dear David, _

_We held a CRC meeting here at Happy Family tonight and who do you think came but—Jenny Penny! Oh, David, the name will mean nothing to you, but it does to me. Jenny Penny might sound ridiculous to your ears, but to me it still holds a little of the far-off romanticism of childhood. There was once a time that I marveled that anyone could be named such a thing, that there should be a person such as Jenny Penny in all the world! _

_She is not Jenny Penny anymore. Jenny Sloane, since she was married two years ago. Her hair is still ravenly black and her eyelashes are still long and tangled and she still walks with her nose in the air—a bit. She is not technically a student but she works in the dining hall at Redmond College and so she is eligible to join our movement. Her husband is overseas and she 'wants to do her part.' I wish you could have known her in the old days, David! Jenny—Penny!—with her hands scalded from 'working out'—all of the mischief that tormented me gone from her eyes. She seems quite ordinary now. Oh, how the mighty have fallen! It was a bit like coming face to face with Santa Claus and finding him a fat old man with a drunkard's nose and broken capillaries all over his skin. It is never very nice when our childhood ideals fail us, is it?_

_2 March 1916_

_David—_

_The fifth battle for Isonzo has begun. If I found the first four hard to stomach, the fifth is a slap in the face. What can be so wonderful about that place that it should be tried for again and again and again? I'm afraid I've neglected what I'm starting to think of as my 'war studies' lately for the sake of real studies. Nan has been gloating over her mid-term ranking and I just can't stand it anymore. Besides—your last letter was written a bit too close to the Western front for my liking. I couldn't abide if you were a shirker—I'm proud of you—but if you can, you _will_ hang a bit toward the back, won't you? If at all possible? _

_29 April 1916_

_Davidest of all Davids, _

_I wonder if Nan begins her letters to Jerry as such—or Faith? But 'Jemmest of all Jems' lacks spice and 'Jerriest of all Jerrys,' is positively ridiculous—not to mention that it might be taken as a slur, these days. No—I feel sure they don't—and I am glad to have a sweetheart with a name that lends itself to romance. _

_Kut has fallen to the Ottomans. We feared it would fall and have known it would fall for so long that I felt quite prepared for the time it did. But then it happened, and I discovered that I wasn't. Such a little place—in a time without war I would probably not have thought about it during the entire course of my life. But tonight, I mourn for it—brave little Kut, who held the Turks off for so long! Is there a girl tonight huddled in her bomb-strafed house who is weeping, too? How strange that her life and my life are connected by the slimmest, most gossamer of threads—and we will never know of each other's true existence. _

_If there is any good about war I think it is this: that all of us, all people, are connected, at heart-level, in a way we would not be if the war had not happened. _

_9 May 1916_

…_Tonight was Alice's first 'real' gallery show. She has had a few exhibitions at the student union, but tonight was her _own_, at a gallery in town. She has been working feverishly for weeks to get her paintings done in time, and wouldn't let anybody see. When we arrived at the place tonight, I understood why. Her paintings were all portraits of 'The Ones She Loves'—Faith sitting in the window at Happy Family, a towel wound turban-like around her head—Nan brushing her hair before the mirror—Pauline leaning over a book—and me, standing at the doorway, half-in and half-out. It made me creepy to see it. I felt it was an omen of sorts—that I was straddling a line between SOMETHING and SOMETHING ELSE. And as you know, I don't like doing anything by halves. _

_There was a portrait of Walter, done while he was sprawled under a tree in the Old St. Johns graveyard. It was funny how Alice managed to suggest a graveyard without showing it. Walter looked dreamy—his lips were touched with smile—and my eyes filled to see it. I miss him so terribly. 'That is for you,' said Alice, squeezing my hand. 'I've had three people offer to buy it but it isn't for sale.'_

'_Oh, Alice!' I cried. 'You _must_ sell it if you can.'_

_But she would not. After the show is over it will hang in my room. _

_As I was circulating through the room I heard a voice said, 'That's Walter Blythe, he used to be my beau, you know.' And I whirled around because as far as I know, Walter has never had a girl-friend before. Sometimes I thought that Faith—or Alice—but he hasn't. I turned and found myself staring into the face of one Delilah Green, who is no friend of mine, and certainly not of Walter's. She coloured to the tips of her ears and I just _looked_ at her until she turned tail and fled. Apparently Miss Green has not overcome her childhood habit of lying as of yet. _

_1 June 1916_

_Our second year at Redmond has ended on the same day that the Brusilov Offensive has begun. You'll be pleased to know that though I did not 'beat' Nan this year, neither did I lose to her—we tied exactly, and we are both very happy about it though we pretend to be put out. _

_Tomorrow we pack up Happy Family and the day after that I'll be home at Ingleside. I don't have a good feeling about this summer and I wish I had. I can't say what it is exactly—but Faith Meredith has been poring over VAD literature a little too much of late. If she should go away, too, I don't know what I would do. _

_5 June 1916_

_David—_

_This morning I heard the Tree Lovers in Rainbow Valley; I woke to their bells. I got up, careful not to disturb Nan, and ran down in my dressing gown. (I _shouldn't_ be writing to you about my dressing gown, but there it is and I shan't cross it out for fear of looking like a prude!) All the world seemed so peaceful and new-born it was hard to imagine that there was a war on anywhere in the world. How could there be? _

_There was one, sweet, early little rose out on my pink rosebush and it seemed a pity to cut it, but Walter always loved those tea roses. I found a pair of shears on the gate and made a vow that when I went back to the house I would dry it and send it to him—a little reminder from home. (The next I'll send to you, dearest, with a kiss!) _

_And I just sat back and enjoyed the morning for a while. But even when you are in the most poetic of moods, the demands of the body cannot be ignored for long. I was hungry—it was past breakfast-time. I tripped up to the house expecting the usual spread and what did I see besides Susan sitting, red-eyed at the table. My heart fell into my shoes. _

'_Kitchener is dead,' Susan told me, and for a long, horrible moment I thought she meant Jims. My heart froze in my chest. Little Jims—Rilla's Jims? But I heard his happy gurgle from upstairs and my heart started beating again. I realized she meant LORD Kitchener, not our 'Little Kitchener.'_

_It seemed a great pity, a horrilble shame, but I couldn't think about it at the moment. I was very angry with Susan. 'Susan,' I said—and I should have been more comforting but I was really very distressed, 'You scared the life out of me. Don't _ever_ do that again.' And I went upstairs to dress. _

_When I came back down Susan had composed herself to a degree and was working on a batch of blueberry pancakes—my favorite. It was her way of saying 'sorry.'_


	16. Another Proposal

"Idle hands are the devil's playthings," said Di half-way through the month of June

"Idle hands are the devil's playthings," said Di half-way through the month of June. "Mother—Father—I hope you won't mind but I've taken a summer job."

Mrs. Blythe looked proud but the doctor looked a little worried. 'His girl' was getting so thin—he wanted her to spend her summer lounging. "What are you going to do, Di o'mine?" he wondered.

"I'd thought for a moment about taking a job in town," Di said. "Mary Vance is. She will be harvesting Mr. Roger Flagg's fields in July and August since he is not there to do it. But I've never been one for farm-work—that's Shirley's thing. I've accepted instead a position caring for Mrs. George Crawford's sick mother. Her son was wounded at Ypres, you know. He has just come home—if you can call a hospital in Charlottetown _home_—and she goes up every day to sit with him."

"Mrs. Abner Elliott!" said Miss Cornelia, who was familiar with Elliotts, having married one. "She might be paying you well—she's rich as Croesus—but you will wish you'd worked out with my Mary after a week and a half of her! Mark my words, Di Blythe."

"Perhaps I will," Di laughed. "Still, it will be something to do."

Mrs. Abner was a plump, hawk-faced lady with iron gray curls lovingly crimped and grizzled into the fashion of fifty years ago. Once, it was rumored, she had been a 'belle'—but now she seemed exceedingly distrustful of anything new and modern. "Your skirt is awful short," were her first words to Di. "I suppose you must not mind people seeing your _knees_." She made 'knees' sound like a very vulgar part of the anatomy indeed.

Di set Mrs. Abner's breakfast tray on the table in front of her and stuck out one leg, twisting round to see the back of it.

"I'm rather proud of my knees," she said. "You see, with all my red hair and freckles, I have to take my good points as I find them."

"You're trying to charm me, like your Ma." Mrs. Abner was unimpressed. "I positively loathe people who are happy all the time."

"But I'm not happy all the time," said Di, tucking a napkin over the old woman's lap. "By spells I'm lonely—and angry—and sad. I just don't happen to be on this particular morning—I can't be unhappy when I smell such roses! You have lovely roses here at Elliott Lodge. Would you like me to run out and cut some for your table?"

"_No_," said Mrs. Abner, aghast. "Such things _belong_ in the outdoors."

"I am of the same mind," said Di. "I never like to cut flowers because really, you are killing them to do it and you should never kill anything that is lovely. But some people do like it. I wasn't sure which type you were so I thought I'd ask."

Mrs. Abner did not seem to know what to say. To admit that Di had misunderstood her meaning would put her at a little of a disadvantage. She chewed her toast for a few moments. "You may retire to the kitchen," she said, finally. "I'll ring my bell when I want you back."

"Yes, indeedy," said Di, who had tucked a copy of _Middlemarch_ into her back before leaving Ingleside. She spent the rest of the morning and most of the afternoon with her feet propped up on the sunny windowsill, happily munching Susan's 'monkey-face' cookies.

"If _this_ is the working life, I find I don't mind it," she said, stretching in the sun.

But she could not spend all of her time in the kitchen. She spent an interminable morning holding the yarn as Mrs. Abner wound it. She learned to dread the ringing of the bell—Mrs. Ab wanted the blanket round her shoulders—wanted it off—wanted it part on, part off. One afternoon Di helped her paste photographs into an album. She had not expected to enjoy herself but ended up having a good time.

"This must be your husband," said Di, examining a picture of a man with an olden-style, curly mustache. "He was quite handsome."

"There is no quite about it," Mrs. Abner corrected her. "He was the handsomest man on the planet. If you must know, I didn't like him a bit. I only married him for his looks and money."

"You _say _that, but I don't believe you mean it," Di chided her. "I can see by your eyes that you liked him—more than liked him—loved him."

"Some people fancy themselves perceptive!" sniffed Mrs. Abner. "Hand me that picture of my mother. _She _wasn't a beauty. Look at that nose! I never minded that mother wasn't pretty, though. It seemed like such a desperate thing to have a really beautiful mother—there is always the worry that you will never be as pretty as she _was_. The memory of that prettiness is like a ghost. _Your_ ma is awful pretty."

"And I suppose I will never match her," Di sighed. "Nan will—or has, I'm not sure which. And even Rilla is getting to be rather gorgeous. We didn't think to expect it of her when she was small, but now…"

"To use a rather vulgar expression, your Nan 'keeps all her goods in the shop window,'" Mrs. Abner said. "When you look at her you see all of her lovely points straight off. There is nothing to discover but flaws. Men will always be disappointed with her."

"You mean to make me feel better by running my sister down," Di cried, "But I won't let you. _I_ think Nan is beautiful and I've got over making comparisons between ourselves long ago. Although—I do think it is rather cruel that she got the Shirley nose _and_ dark hair."

"I _wish_ redheads would stop cauterwauling about their hair." Mrs. Abner fingered one of her long white locks. "My hair was red as an apple in the old days and I always liked it. I stood out in a crowd. I would braid it into three sections and oil it and wear it in gleaming coils on the crown of my head. When anyone walked into a room I was in, _I_ was the first thing their eyes went to. Here," she passed Di an old sepia picture of a very lovely girl of about seventeen.

"Why, you were lovely!" she cried, and then, realizing what she'd said, stammered, "I mean—I _meant_…"

Mrs. Abner held up a gnarled, queenly hand. "I know perfectly well what you meant," she said coolly. "I am not bothered by it. I know I am not beautiful now—but I was, and the memory of it gets me through the warts and wrinkles. The—only thing is—sometimes, I look in the mirror and I wonder if _any_ of that girl remains. She seems—trapped—somewhere, deep down under my thick hide. Everything else is just barnacles. Tell me, girl, and be honest—_do_ you see any of _her _in _me_? Anything at all?"

Di choked for a moment. It would be—so—easy to just say that there was something about the eyes, or to point out a dimple or a curve of neck or cheek. But Mrs. Abner had asked for honesty, and Di wanted to give her that gift.

"Would you please turn your head to the side?" she questioned. Mrs. Abner complied. There!—there was something, a flash about the profile, and Di gasped but Mrs. Abner turned back and it was gone.

Di looked into the picture. The young Mrs. Abner had one smooth hand to her cheek. Di looked from old to young to old to young again. Finally she said,

"There _is_ something around the chin—yet—but it is more a _feeling _that links you. When I look at this girl I think of—I think of roses, the red ones, dappled with pink. And when I look at you now—I _still_ think of those roses. Just like the ones outside your window."

It seemed a very unsatisfying answer but Mrs. Abner seemed pleased with it. She took her photograph back. "Go and cut a vaseful, then," she told Di. "And bring them to me."

xxxxxxxxxx

"Miss Blythe," said Mrs. Abner one day. "Come and sit by me while I enjoy my breakfast. There is something I want to talk over with you. A business proposal."

"All—right," Di said, and sat.

Between bites, Mrs. Abner explained. "I am very rich woman," she said. "My husband had a 'hand' for investments. I suppose Cornelia Bryant's told you I'm rich as Croesus."

"No..o…o," Di fibbed.

"Yes, she has. She tells everyone I am, those exact words. Well, I am, so it doesn't matter. I have a very lot of money and with that preface, now I am going to ask you a question. Will you marry my grandson George Junior?"

"What?" spluttered Di.

"If you will marry him, I will pay you ten thousand dollars. It will be yours, now—put into an account in your own name. Nobody else—not even your husband—would be able to touch it."

"Wh—why would you _pay_ me to marry him?"

Mrs. Abner ignored Di's question. She rooted in her album until she came up with a picture of a very serious looking young boy of about five or six. "George was a handsome devil in his way," she mused. "It was a pity what happened to him in France. Burns over sixty-percent of his body. He will never find a wife, now, looking as he does. And I hear it is rather ghastly, to see him. Which is why you'll be well compensated, if you accept my—_his_—proposal."

"Why _me_?" Di wondered, a little hotly. "Did you think I was so ugly that _I _wouldn't mind having a disfigured husband?"

"Oh, come off your high horse, girl. You're _not_ as pretty as your sisters—you said it yourself—but you're tolerable in your own way." This, from Mrs. Abner, was a compliment of the highest order. "I asked you because I think you're rather sensible under all your smiles and roses, and because you can make a passable cup of tea. You'll make a good wife—you can be trained to be less silly. And—and—I suppose I rather like you," she confessed, as though to like Di would be a deep, dark failing in anybody else. "I like having you round. I'll even _miss_ you when you go back to that horrid college in the fall."

It was said with a certain amount of tenderness, which soothed Di's ruffled exterior. "Mrs. Abner," she said, reached for the old woman's hand, "I like you, too—very much, though I didn't expect to at first. And I wouldn't mind marrying your George, no matter how he looks—_if_ I loved him," she continued. "But I don't even know him so I can't possibly accept. And besides," her cheeks coloured, "I am—engaged—to somebody else. He is overseas now."

"Maybe he'll be killed," Mrs. Abner mused. "If he is, will you reconsider my request?"

Di recoiled. "What a terrible thing to say, and to say it so casually! I won't discuss it any more."

"Fine," Mrs. Abner leaned back and closed her eyes. "Oh, I am sorry, girl. I've offended you. Go into the kitchen and get me tea and then I'll leave you to your book and cookies—yes, I know about the cookies. You _might_ tell Susan Baker to send enough for me. It's only polite."

Di brought the tea and a few 'monkey-faces' on a pink plate. On the way home she considered the strange day.

"That's two marriage proposals—three, including David's—that I've gotten," Di said. "Whereas Nan, for all her prettiness, has only had one—as far as I go. Well, looks might count for something but results speak for themselves, as Susan always says."

Di told her mother of it after dinner—omitting, of course, the part about David Lewison. It was the first time she had really _spoken_ to mother since their quarrel over winter break—spoken in a heart to heart way. Mrs. Blythe laughed at all the right places and said, "How horrible!" in others, and when it was over she said, "Di—you _must_ let me tell you a story about Billy Andrews."

"Do tell!" Di begged. She curled into her mother's arms and thought about how nice it was, to be _friends_ with mother again. But then—she knew—they had never _really_ stopped.


	17. The Third Summer Ends

And just like that—almost without warning—it was August again

And just like that—almost without warning—it was August again. The third summer of the war was over, and the twins were setting out to school again for their 'junior' year.

"It seems to have gone so quickly," Nan said, with the habit she had of touching the gold-plated locket around her neck—the one that Jerry had given her—beginning to be a little tarnished with age and so much handling. "Wasn't it just yesterday, Di, that we first arrived here at Happy Family—yesterday—_and_ a thousand years ago, all at once."

One Happy Family Way had been vacant throughout the summer and now it was dim and cobwebby. Di unpacked her work clothes and set immediately to rooting out the dust bunnies and scouring all the floors. It hurt her a little to see Happy Family looking drab and run-down at the seams, the way it had hurt her to arrive at Ingleside and see one of the upstairs shutters dangling and paint-stripped. None of the boys had been around to do it—Shirley had been away at a football camp in Nova Scotia—Jem and Walter were gone—and Dad was so busy. Di had had to scale a latter and repaint and reattach it—with Nan's help.

There was so much to do. The annual Collegiate Red Cross elections had promoted Di to vice president; she had been named co-editor of the literary magazine; she had finally had to break down and take Latin, which she was not good at. And a lot of other dull courses—_the History of Language, Etymology, _and _Writing for the Home_, an insipid, patronizing class required of all female students, which taught how to write the perfectly worded thank you note and bee-you-tifully calligraphied dinner menus.

"Something should be done about that," Pauline grumbled.

"Who has the time?" Di wondered, flying by.

The only class she really enjoyed at all was Mr. Irving's poetry course. For two hours, three times a week, she felt as though she had been transported to a new land, where there was no thing as war, and where her heart and soul had wings.

"When I am in class, I forget there is such a _place_ as the Somme," she confessed, as she and Mr. Irving walked across the quadrangle. "It is such a delightful relief to forget it—but because I have forgotten about it, when I think of it again it as though I heard the news for the first time. There can't be such a bloody place—with all of our brave boys there."

"Do you have anyone close to you there?" Mr. Irving wondered.

"My brothers might be—we don't know for sure—and my friends, the Merediths—and Aunt Diana's son, Jack. And…and my _fiancé_," she finished, deciding to let Mr. Irving in on her best—and closest—secret. She reached into the neckline of her gown and brought out the sparkling diamond ring on the golden chain and showed him. It was as limpid and clear as water, and still warm from being nestled against her heart.

"Best wishes to you, then," said Mr. Irving, wondering why he could not sincerely mean it.

That night the news came that the Canadians had taken Martenspuich and Courcelette. "Oh, if I were Susan, I'd run up the flag!" Faith proclaimed, proudly.

"But at what cost," worried Nan. "At what cost?"

"No cost is too great for freedom," quoted Di, believing that she meant it. It was something that Mr. Irving had said and she tried to say it with conviction, as he had.

Di found Mr. Irving a consoling presence in the first hectic month of term. Faith seemed a little distant and Nan had her own worries, so it was to Paul Irving that Di brought her triumphs—her funny stories about working the literary mag—her fears, and her failings. "It is coming down to the wire," she confessed over a cup of hot apple cider in the student's lounge. "You see, I'm to graduate next year, and I haven't any idea of what I want to do with my life. Of course I'm going to be a wife—and I _want_ to be a mother—but I think I'd like to work, too. I do enjoy my time at the literary mag. There is something so neat and practical about ordering another person's words—inserting neat, prim little commas—cleaning things up and setting them out."

"Perhaps I can arrange an internship for you," Mr. Irving suggested. "Next summer—if you are able—a spot as a proofreader somewhere. It won't be very glamorous but it will give you a chance to get your foot in the door, and there is something very satisfying about working your way up from the bottom rung. When you get to the top you know that the long, hard climb has been worth it—and the view from the top makes the journey sweet with success."

"I couldn't let you arrange it unless I was really sure it was for merit, and not for friendship," Di said firmly. "Though it is awfully kind of you to offer. But I think I'd rather apply myself. _That_ will add a little extra sweetness—_when_ I reach the top."

"But of course," said Paul Irving. "You shall have to let me know where you apply." In his head he was already comprising the letters of recommendation on her behalf.

Di went home to find Nan biting her nails down to the quick. "The nightly edition of the newspaper hasn't come yet," she said, her face haggard with misery. "Oh, Di, I _have_ to know what's going on—over there. I _have _to know if Jerry…"

Di pulled her up by the hand. "It is a beautiful September day," she said. "Look at the sky, Nannie. And feel just the first beginning of chill in the air. I know what we'll do. An applewood fire—and we're going to make a big pot of Susan-soup—I have her recipe here—something that involves a lot of stirring and chopping. That way we won't be able to think about anything else. No news is good news, after all."

The twins set to work cooking. Alice was painting in the attic, which had long ago been converted into her studio and the smells of oil paint and linseed oil drifted _not_ unpleasantly down. Pauline was having a debate out in the yard with several other philosophy students. And Faith was laughing over something—strained laughter, forced, but laughter nonetheless.

There was a rap on the door and Di wiped her floury hands on her apron and ran to answer it. Perhaps it was Jenny Sloane—she sometimes stopped by for a quick chat on her way to and from work—or it could be Mr. Irving, with that book of poems he had promised her. "Coming," she sang out, and pulled the door open. "Why—Dad!" she cried. "What are you doing here? Oh, Nan, Nan—it's father! Come in, Dad—Dad? Is something wrong?"

Her father's face was grey and haggard. There were black circles under his eyes. He stepped into the hallway and allowed Di to show him to a seat at the table. He waited until the girls had removed their aprons and sat down, too, before he told them, in a voice that sounded nothing like his usual tone, that their brother Walter had been killed in action at Courcelette.

xxxxxxxxxx

The days passed in a gray, formless sea of tears. There was no other word for what they were feeling than agony. They went home—Mother, white faced—Susan, stony with sorrow. Rilla white about the lips, not daring to speak or breathe. Even Jims did not dare to cry. Being home was almost worse than being away. Home was a place that Walter was never coming back to.

"I can't stand it, I can't stand it," murmured Di to herself.

The first few nights she and Nan slept in the same bed, as they had done when they were very small. They clung to each other and wept hotly. "Walter—dead," Nan would say, every so often, in a flat, disbelieving little voice. "Walter—_dead_."

"Stop," Di shuddered. "Stop—Nan. Oh, Nan! Oh—_Walter_."

After a few days it was decided that they must go back to school. There was nothing they could do at home. It seemed to make things worse to have everyone there. There was too much suffering under one roof. Di was glad to escape it. In Kingsport she might walk the streets anonymously and nobody would know. Here, everyone she saw looked at her pityingly. She could not bear her own anguish and everyone else's, too.

It was a relief to go. It was a relief to have Faith's arms around her. "Oh, Di," Faith said, but she didn't weep, which would have set Di off, too. There were flowers from Pauline and Alice and another, larger bunch from the dean of students. Di wondered if there was a special fund for funeral arrangements for the students with dead lovers—dead siblings—dead friends and dead parents. Walter—dead.

She could not bear it.

Mr. Irving sent a book of poems. In it there was a verse: _I shall be dust when my heart forgets_. It summed up her feelings exactly. How had he known that it would? She would never forget Walter. Other times, she thought she was already beginning to forget him—the way he was—_had been_. How had he looked when he had smiled? How had he said her name? She got up from her warm bed and sat in the dark writing and writing—every single thing she ever remembered about him. Feverishly. By dawn she had filled thirty pages with remembrances but there were still things that would fall through the cracks of memory, things she would not even know she had forgotten until they were gone and she could not call them back.

It was too much. It was too hard.

Other times she was angry. There was a letter from the commanding officer that said Walter had died leading a charge across No-Man's Land toward the enemy trenches. _Why_ had he been leading it? Why hadn't he hung back and let someone else? If he had, he may still be alive. Had he been afraid—still—that someone would call him 'coward?' _Damn_ Walter—damn him! He had gotten himself killed and in it he had killed her, too.

For surely—surely—one could not go on living when one felt this way? As though their soul had been amputated—as though each step led down into a deep, dark pit of utter hopelessness.

She hated Pauline and Alice by spells because they were sad. They had not known Walter! How could they cry? Or else they were not sad enough, and her blood bubbled with rage. She hated Faith, because Faith had brothers who were alive. She hated Mother—Father—for letting Walter go. Why had they not stopped him? She hated _Rilla_—Rilla had taken Walter away from her! Oh, what could silly, stupid Rilla have offered him? Nothing—nothing!

There came a day, a week after they had the news, and in it Nan laughed—_laughed_—over something Pauline was saying in the kitchen, as she got dinner. It was not a real laugh—it was sharp and short sounding—but it was a laugh. Walter was dead, and Nan was laughing. Di reached over and grabbed the plate out of her sister's startled hands and dashed it to the floor, where it broke into a thousand pieces.

"Di_ana_," said Faith, in a shocked—and warning—tone.

Mostly, though—mostly Di hated herself. It was she who had pushed Walter away from her. He had died before she could pull him back again. They had been such friends once—_friends_ wasn't the word. They had shared a soul. And Di had spoken rashly to him, crossly, and he had died thinking—maybe—that she did not love him. She was not sure if he had loved her as he once had. _She_ had made him join up, with all of her lofty speeches to him, her digs about duty. If she had only been more patient, more understanding! _She, _Diana Blythe, had killed her brother—as surely as if she'd done it with her own two hands.

The pain swelled and solidified in her chest. It was too much. She could _not_ bear it. It couldn't be borne.

She lay in her bed and prayed. She did not pray to die, not exactly—she just prayed for it to stop, all of it: the world, her pain, her sorrow.


	18. Requiem

But the world would not stop. It kept turning.

Di wondered, sometimes, how people _could_ keep going. All around her she saw attractive co-eds, running here and there and to that party, and this supper, and she wondered at them. She was not angry—her anger had quite drained away—she was only incredulous. Did they not know that Private Walter Blythe, poet, brother, son, and lover of beauty—had died? Could they not _feel_ that something lovely had gone out of the world and would never be brought back into it? And then she gave a short laugh and turned to her books again, the words on the page blurred by tears.

How utterly _selfish_, to think that because _her_ brother had died, because she, Diana Barry Blythe, had suffered a great loss—that _they_ must feel it, too.

She had a letter from Walter, but she did not open it. She was too afraid to open. Rilla had had one, Dad said, and had taken it straightaway to Rainbow Valley to read. Rilla had come up from the valley white and stricken, but there had been a squareness to her shoulders that was not there before, a new sense of purpose in her hazel eyes. But Rilla and Walter had parted on good terms. Di and Walter had parted as friends—yes, as friends—but not as the soul-mates they had once been. What if he should chastise her? What if his last words had been hollow, _friendly_ things?

Di put the letter away on a top shelf of her wardrobe, and dragged her feet around her daily life. She had heard people say that the terrible, unmoored feeling went away with time. She did not think it did—she thought people only got used to living with it, and that idea struck her as immeasurably sad. To live fifty—sixty—seventy years!—with this sort of weight upon her heart!

Di went to her classes and she dutifully read each chapter assigned and she prepared papers on 'The History of Tudor England' and 'Biblical Imagery in Milton's Later Works,' but her heart was not in it. They were studying the War of the Roses in European History and each description of each battle pierced her to the core. In Paul Irving's poetry class they were reading—cruel, how cruel—Wordsworth, whom Walter had loved. Mr. Irving could not know that. Still, when Di heard him read, in his sonorous voice,

_I SAW far off the dark top of a Pine_

_Look like a cloud--a slender stem the tie_

_That bound it to its native earth--poised high..._

She could not take it. She remembered too well that Walter had read it to her. The words came back with surprising force.

The rescued Pine-Tree, with its sky so bright

And cloud-like beauty, rich in thoughts of home,

Death-parted friends, and days too swift in flight...

Di gathered her books and slipped, tear-blinded, from the classroom.

In the library, where she sought refuge, she fell over the figure of a girl, hidden in the stacks, holding the skirt of her dress to her face. Di saw the girl was crying and at first her heart leapt, to think she was not the only person in the world to feel such grief. But she was too much her mother's daughter to move on and leave the girl to her pain. With a sigh Di settled her books on the floor and sat down, and put her arm around the shaking shoulders.

Delilah Green looked up with a stricken face—Delilah Green, Di's old nemesis of the Rainbow Valley days—Delilah, who had used her, lied about her—Delilah, here, sobbing her eyes out? "Oh, Di," she said, throwing her arms around her neck, as though they were still girls, and the best of friends. "Oh Di—it's Arthur Pringle—my Arthur!" She gasped for words, and was so incohered by sobs that Di only caught a word here or there: Fifth Army, Theipval, Mouquet farm—and dead. Delilah said it in a monotone—dead, dead, dead—and each time she said it, a new wash of tears slipped down her cheeks.

"We were to be married when he came home," Delilah sniffled, wiping at her eyes. "I was so worried about him, since my step-brother was shot at Vimy Ridge—but Glenn is home, now, and he is going to get better. I was stupid enough to think that it was an auspicious sign—that if Glenn was safe, of course Arthur would be safe, too. How stupid—stupid—of me!"

"It isn't stupid," Di said softly. "When we heard after Courcelette from Jem—and Jerry Meredith—that they were well—of course I thought that Walter would be, too. In times of greatest strife the mind reaches out for any tenuous hope. Don't feel stupid, Delilah: feel _human_."

"Walter is dead?" asked Delilah, looking something other than heart-stricken for the first time. "Oh, Di—it's been so many years—but I remember Walter well. He was kind to me—when I was so young and angry and confused. My mother had just died and my father was more interested in my step-mother—and Glenn—I felt nobody wanted me. But Walter was so kind, even after I—I don't think I've told you I was sorry for what I did so long ago, but I am. And Walter's kindness meant a great deal to me. But Walter—he was kind to everybody, wasn't he?"

"Yes, he was," Di agreed, and for the first time, she did not feel such overwhelming sadness when she thought of her moonpale brother—his dark hair, his easy smiles. "Yes, Walter was very kind. And a host of other good things. Delilah—why don't you come home with me and spend the afternoon. We'll play hooky—and I'll make some soup—and we can sit in front of the fire and just be, away from things for a little while."

xxxxxxxxxx

When Delilah had gone Di went resolutely to her wardrobe and brought down Walter's letter—his last letter to her. The last one she would ever get. She thought perversely that she should not open it, because as long as it was unopened it would not be really over. As long as she left it to read some other time, she would not have to look down the empty, Walterless stretch of years. It was a tempting thought.

But Walter had taken the time to write to her, and she owed it to him to read it, no matter the cost of suffering later. There was his writing black on the envelope—she tore it open, before she could change her mind.

_Dearest Diana_, (Walter had written)

_I had a memory the other day that I wanted to write you about. It is strange how memories come back over here, unbidden, at the least-expected times. I was remembering the day you and Nan were born. Aunt Marilla had come up from Avonlea and she and Miss Cornelia were entertaining Jem and I. We were wee chaps—I couldn't have been more than two or so. But I _DO_ remember: it isn't just being told I about it. I remember the day itself. Father came downstairs and he was beaming and Miss Cornelia jumped up and said, "A girl?" And Dad said, "Yes—a girl—and another for good measure." Oh, Di, I was so disappointed. I'd wanted a brother—another brother—Jem was always off playing with the other boys. I wanted a brother like me, who preferred rhymes to reasons. I was in the depths of despair as Dad led us up the stairs. _

_Mother was on the bed with a bundle in each arm—a pretty, pale, brown-eyed little sister—Nan—and another sister with hair like the sun on fire—that was you, dear one. And as I leaned over to peep at your baby-face, you opened up those great green eyes and looked at me—_really_ looked_—_and I knew, even then, that we would always be the best of friends. It was the first presentiment of my life, Di. For we __always have been__ the best of friends. And we always will be. But I do not need to tell you that. We scarcely need words between us—Father always said we were more like twins than you and Nan. Twins of the heart, he called us, and rightly so. _Rightly_ so, Di—twin of my heart. _

_Di, you are reading this, and you must know now what I know tonight. I know what is coming, and tomorrow, when I write to Rilla, I will be brave and unafraid because she will need me to be. But tonight, Di—tonight I am letting myself mourn my self. I am not afraid, but I _am_ sad to go. There are so many heaps of things that I would like to have done. I find, here at the end of it all, that hope pervades, and I can't help from proposing all sorts of wagers to God. If he will let me live, I shall never again take a day for granted. I shall fill each hours with some small sort of kindness. I shall write a poem a day—or if He prefers, I shall write no poems at all. But I know that God takes us too seriously to bargain with us over such small things, and so I shall (as Mother used to say about her red hair) resign myself to my fate. But Di—I would have liked to have fallen in love. I've been half in love half a dozen times, and some of them may have developed into more, if I'd had time. But it seems I won't, and I'm wistful over it. Fall in love, for me, won't you, Di? Give over your whole heart and soul. Don't ever hold back a bit—ever, dear one. _

_You mustn't think me selfish, darling, because it is not only my own lost days I am mourning, you see. It is the loss of the days we would have spent together that hurt me most of all. So many days, over so many years! I would have liked to see you at twenty—thirty—forty—eighty. (What will you look like at eighty, Di? Red-haired still, I'd wager.) Oh, Diana, I would have liked to bounce your babies on my knee—I think I should have been a most avuncular uncle. But as dad would say, 'So wags the world away.' There isn't anything I can do about it, and so I try to make my peace. I won't write you platitudes, the sort that Mother will want and Rilla will require. I won't admonish you from The Great Beyond. I will only say that I love you, and the kind of love we have always felt for each other can't die, no matter what happens to the body. Remember, Diana Blythe, though it be hard at first—even with all the sorrow, and all the suffering, it is still a very beautiful world, and I was glad to live in it, if only for a little while._

He had signed it with his name, and Di traced her fingers over it now, and then held the paper to her lips. The tears were running down her face as she put the paper back into the envelope, but for the first time in many weeks she was smiling. Walter had loved her. Of course he had. How silly to think that a few cold words between them would matter against things like hope—joy—fear—life, and death. Walter had loved her and she had loved him, and the asters, the lovely farewell summers, were out in the garden of Happy Family, as they were in Rainbow Valley. Walter had always loved the asters. Di went out and walked among them for the better part of an hour, until they blended with the purple twilight and the stars had come out, one by one by one.


	19. More Letters from Di

_22 October 1916_

_Dear David_,

_It is a month ago that I first heard that "time heals all wounds." Is it true—has it been for me? It is hard to say. I find that it is possible to think of Walter and remain dry-eyed. Sometimes I think of him as fondly as I ever did—oh, but sometimes I forget, and the remembering is like a dagger to my heart. And other times still I think of him—really think of him—and I realize all over again he is gone away forever. It is as though I am hearing of his death all over again and I have to stop whatever I am doing and run away from things for a little while. _

_No—I don't think time _heals_—but it might mellow things a bit. _

_Today there was a meeting of the Junior Reds and I went—with Alice and Faith—the first time that I have gone to a meeting since Walter died. I passed a very miserable hour parrying inquiries about "my poor dear brother" that were half meant for consolation and half-attempt at prying for details. It is so strange how everyone wants to know all about terrible things. But I think most people believe that if it has happened to someone else it _can't_ happen to them. And in this dreadful war, when knitting gatherings and letter-writing parties have replaced teas and socials and cotillions, I suppose news of who was killed or injured and when and where replaces the old gossip about who was wearing what dress, who has fallen in love, who has been jilted, and so forth. _

_But, too, I think that some peoples' feeling was sincere. I was approached by a pretty girl who had been in one of Walter's literature classes, who seemed to be genuinely distraught at the news of his death. Lillian Stedman (for that is her name) sat down with me in a nook and talked glowingly of Walter's love of beautiful imagery and his talent with language and in the end we just _had_ to have a little cry together. I should say that I look forward to meeting Lillian again soon but in the course of our conversation I learned that I should not have the chance, since she is going overseas with the VAD before Christmas. She did promise to write to me—isn't it strange how just one meeting with a person can make you feel as though you've known her a whole lifetime—whereas a thousand meetings with another leave them just as inscrutable as ever? But then, Lillian is of the race that knows Joseph. _

_I noticed that she and Faith talked together for a long time after I'd moved on to another group of girls. I wonder what it was they were discussing so somberly? Faith's eyes flashed like yellow diamonds and she kept nodding, firmly, with her mouth in a thin, set line. She was quiet at supper that night and all through the next day—and as you know for yourself, Faith is _never_ quiet. _

_Speaking of the race of Joseph—I must write to you of my renewed friendship with Delilah Green. We get on—though it is very tenuous ground sometimes. She does have the tendency to say exactly the wrong thing at the wrong time. For instance, just yesterday I had a letter from Jem—just a short note, with a marvelous riddle at the end of it. He promised to send the answer in his next letter, and Delilah remarked that she hoped nothing happened to Jem or else we'd never find it out! Faith snapped out of her reverie long enough to whip Delilah's cheeks into colour. But I don't think she meant to be cruel—just a little absent-minded. She flushed prettily and apologized. Delilah is very pretty—how I used to ache with jealousy over those sleek, sugar-brown curls of hers! And she is quite popular, being the star of the Dramatic Club, with those looks and that thrilling voice of hers. As Pauline says (sarcastically!), "I suppose we'll let her live—for now."_

_Speaking of Pauline: oh, David! She is in a romance. It is the most exciting thing. Alice has no fellow and Jem and Jerry and _you_ are overseas, and so we live vicariously through Paulie and a very genial fellow by the name of Eugene Strauss. Eugene is in his senior year, and he is not in khaki and he's taken some flack for that. But he promised his mother he would graduate first, and so he goes around good-naturedly with a white feather pinned to his lapel. He doesn't mind wearing it—it reminds him that he must hurry up and finish so he can go and join the fight. He said, once, that he hoped it all wasn't over before he had the chance—we scolded him awfully—but ever since the battle of Morval he has been careful not to mention it. I think even Gene knows now that it will be a good long while before the war is over. _

_Oh, David, it is so nice to sit up here in my room and look down over the twilit world. Nan is at the piano, singing—it is the first time she has sung like this since Walter died. I loved Walter so terribly that it is difficult for me to remember that Nan lost a brother as well as I. And this song was one of his favorites—_Keep the Home Fires Burning_. There is a couplet in it, _

They were summoned from the hillside  
They were called in from the glen,

_That makes me very nearly dissolve. But I must keep a stiff upper lip and soldier on, as Susan would tell me to do, if she were here. I have ten pages of Virgil to construe by noon tomorrow. _

_Oh, David—do you know that I miss you dreadfully? And that I'm just as crazy for you as ever?_

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_30 November 1916_

_Oh, David, I am glad to see the end of this horrid month._

_It is quite possible that if you were here with me even November could seem the sweetest of months, but without you it is cold, dreary, and cheerless. Especially this November. The glory of October helped me over missing Walter too much but in the past weeks I've dropped down into the doldrums again. Can it be that this war will _ever_ be over? Can it be that you can still love me when we haven't seen each other in more than two years? I spent a long while today sitting in the parlour doing sums on an old slate I found in the attic. I tallied how many days it has been since I have seen you—hours—minutes. I tried for seconds and in the middle of my multiplication I got so angry at—at everything—that I stood up and cracked the slate over the arm of my chair, just as mother did to father's head once upon a time. Thinking of that old story made me laugh and I felt better for a while. Oh, David—aren't you glad _we_ met in such a lovely way? I'm glad I didn't clobber you with a slate. _

_We've all been a little blue this month. Faith goes around preoccupied though when I ask her about it she waves me away. I hope she and Jem haven't quarreled. Nan hasn't had a letter from Jerry in a few weeks, which is normal, but all these years of war have turned Nan into a worrywart. She has far too much imagination to be comfortable at a time like this. Alice has made herself scarce these past few weeks; she spends all of her time in her attic studio, and she is very secretive about what she is working on. I miss her, though she hasn't gone anywhere._

_Pauline and Eugene are walking in the garden, cold as it is. They don't mind—they've their love to keep them warm. Oh, David, part of me hates Pauline because Eugene is here, now, and part of me wonders what she will do when he goes away. For she _does_ love him_. _I suppose they will get married before he goes, and I'm torn between being happy for Pauline and being horribly jealous of her, because she will get a chance to be Mrs. Eugene Strauss, no matter what happens—over there. _

_David, I must tell you that I imagined our wedding out very fully, from start to finish, and down to the tiniest detail, two nights ago. I should like to tell you about it but I can't help feeling it would be bad luck. And I'm afraid that if I start imagining things, reality will never live up to it. Nan has that same problem. She is always disappointed when things aren't as nice really as she fancied them to be. It makes me glad I never had very much imagination to begin with. _

_Speaking of Nan, I've been hard at work on her Christmas present. I saved my pennies and bought some lovely rose yarn to make her a pair of bedroom slippers from a pattern I found in a magazine. I've found a bit of matching rose silk to line them with. It's going to be a slim Christmas and coal is being heavily rationed. It's nice to think of my gift being beautiful and useful. I try to sneak in a few rows every night after she's gone to bed but she sits up so late I don't know if I'll be done in time._

_Oh, David! I couldn't ever imagine anything more wonderful that you being here. I know it's the one thing that wouldn't ever let me down in reality, no matter how many times I imagined it!_

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20 December 1916

…_so it's back to Ingleside again. We just arrived today and it's lovely to be home—but at the same time, it hurts me to be here. I miss Walter dreadfully at home. His ghost seems to peep at me from around corners. Every inch of this place holds a memory of him. _

_Faith and Pauline and Alice and Nan and I had our own Christmas yesterday evening, since we won't be together for the day itself. Eugene bought us a spruce tree and we decorated it, and Faith and Nan and I slaved away all day to cook a scrumptious Christmas dinner. Afterwards, we gathered around the fire and exchanged presents. I got a new book from Pauline; a bottle of violet perfume from Faith, and David, you'll never believe what I got from Nan! __A pair of blue wool slippers, trimmed with matching silk, identical to the rose ones I made for her!__ I think she used the same magazine pattern, even! We're not very twinnish twins, so things like this don't normally happen with us. It made us both laugh until we clutched our sides, and cried, and it was _good _to laugh. I _felt_ Walter grinning over it, far away from us though he might be._

_Alice handed me a long, flat parcel and told me not to open it until I arrived home. So of course it was the first thing I did when I got here. She painted me a portrait of Walter. It is the most amazing thing—it is him to the life. In it, he's leaning against the trunk of the spruce tree at the bottom of the garden and one of his hands holds a book as though he had just laid it down a minute. His face is in half-profile but his eyes—I never realized how talented Alice was until I saw those eyes. They are Walter's eyes, David, to the life. I don't think anyone could have painted those eyes of his so vividly unless they loved Walter very much, which makes me wonder if Walter—and Alice…? But I know I'll never ask her and so I suppose I'll never know. _

_We aren't going to have any big Christmas here and I'm glad. Aunt Marilla died at Christmas the year I was twelve and Mother was so broken up about it that Dad arranged for a big, sumptuous Christmas at a hotel in Charlottetown to cheer her up. It was nice of him to try, but none of us—including Dad—enjoyed ourselves a bit. The fuss seemed to make things worse. This year we'll just get together with the manse people and we won't try to be gay or cheerful and that will be better than the alternative, I think. _

_It is good to see Dad and Mother again, though Mother looks awful. I have never seen Mother look old before Walter died, and she doesn't look __old__ now—but she does look as though some glad sparkle has gone out of her eyes. Dad's hair is half-gray now and he has little lines around his eyes that weren't there before. _

_Another surprise for me was Shirley. David, you remember how he looked when you went away. Like a boy, still. But Shirley has grown six inches and he looks almost a man now. He'll be starting at Redmond in the winter term, having finished up early at Queens. He has a new, gruff way of speaking and I noticed at supper tonight that his eyes followed Una Meredith all evening, though she didn't seem to take any notice of him. I always thought Shirley and Una would be a nice match, because they are so alike in temperament. But tonight I noticed something—when Nan said Walter's name—I am probably imagining things, but I noticed Rilla noticing, too. _

_Rilla is another surprise. I remember her as being flighty and frivolous—but something in her has changed. She seems more steady now, and we actually talked together tonight—really talked, which we never have done before. She was dandling Jims on her knee the whole time and he really is a peach of a darling now. Gertrude Oliver came in to see me hugging him and Rilla and I laughing and she said, "There's a picture Walter would have liked to see." _

_And she is right, David. I know she is. _


End file.
